Fortune Favours The Bold
by Siderial
Summary: The world of fame is as glamorous as it is cutthroat. Young aspiring idol Ruby Rose is about to discover how showbiz works, and perhaps with a bit of help, turn the industry on its head. AU. [White Rose, Bumbleby, Arkos, demSloths]
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: nth Time's The Charm**

_6 November 2014, Thursday_

_3:36PM_

"_I'm sorry, but you aren't exactly what we're looking for."_

Ruby sighed, shuffling out of a pristine skyscraper back into the throng of people. A strong, cool breeze blew past the female, forcing an uncontrollable shudder from Ruby as early winter's biting chill permeated through her thin jacket and clung to her like a second skin. She hunched over slightly in an attempt to huddle up and maintain warmth, making her small, lone figure in front of the giant, imposing edifice seem even more insignificant in the sea of nameless faces.

She buried her face deeper in her red scarf and dug pink mitten-covered hands into her jacket pockets. Ruby pulled out and unfolded an innocuous piece of paper. Her face fell even more on looking down at the crumpled, worn flyer she cradled in hands.

Another failed audition.

Her forty-eighth one this year.

The nineteen-year-old sighed again, trudging away from the building. She wadded the now-useless paper into a ball and threw it into the trash receptacle next to the intersection. Then, she burrowed her hands into her pockets and crossed the road.

As irrational as it was, Ruby thought the glass monolith she left behind towered over her, watching and mocking her every step; her chest began to tighten as she slowly walked away. She slouched even more, curling into herself as she hastened her pace until the building was out of sight, hidden away by more of the city's infamously tall structures.

No longer feeling eyes bore into her back, Ruby sucked in a deep breath and relaxed, the weight on her shoulders dissipating. She glanced around, finding herself on a street she had never walked before – since it was so far from her house and workplace – and completely clueless as to what to do next. Should she return home, so she could comfort herself with her sister's favourite soap opera recording and a tub of cookies and cream ice-cream? Or perhaps–

Ruby inelegantly sniffed the air, detecting faint traces of warm, spicy cinnamon and freshly grounded coffee beans between blasts of stale, frigid wind. It _had_ been awhile since someone else made coffee for her. Perhaps this would be a good change of pace. She nodded to herself. Her mind made up, the female allowed her nose to lead the way. She followed the enticing smelling trail, inhaling deeply as the air grew more fragrant with every step.

Shortly thereafter, Ruby found herself standing in front of a quaint, local coffee store. The heady aromatic scents wafting into her nose seduced her into the small space, where she unconsciously went through the practiced motions of ordering a hot brew to go from the barista.

She sighed, the third time since leaving the audition office, as she handed the barista exact change for the transaction. She knew how annoying it was when people in this city used small purchases to break huge bills, since she worked part-time at an established coffee chain to make due, and wanted to spare her fellow barista the trouble.

Glancing around the small store, Ruby noticed that no seats were available, all taken up by those seeking shelter from the biting cold. She pursed her lips, thinking that it was for the best. Wallowing in the comfort of her own abode was infinitely better than sitting in the store listlessly sipping at her drink, watching as the world passed her by. Her gaze affixed itself to the single windowpane leading out to the streets while waiting for her brew.

Her eyes widened imperceptibly on sighting a giant crowd had gathered in front of a makeshift stage in the park across the road, with a handful of security guards surveying the area and overseeing the crowd.

"There's some sort of musical performance that's happening in a few minutes," Ruby heard a voice from behind her say. She jumped a little, twisting around to stare at the smiling barista.

Pink dusted the aspiring idol's cheeks as she reached out to grab the latte placed on the countertop. "Thank you," she murmured, glancing down at the worker's name tag, "Velvet."

The barista's smile stretched wider. "You're welcome. Have a nice day!" she said with a small polite wave.

"You too," Ruby replied, before she left the charming coffeehouse. Standing just outside the door, Ruby took a quick sip of her drink as she watched the park's ongoings. With how energised the crowd seemed to be getting, there was no doubt that Velvet's words rang true; the concert would begin at any moment.

She made a split second decision. Her feet moved quickly, carrying her towards the excited throng of people.

They had already begun chanting.

Without much thought, Ruby started to sprint towards the group. However, just as she was within arms reach of the last person's back, she veered to the left, ignoring the strange looks security shot her in favour of running straight for the tree she had spotted upon a small hill mere metres away. As soon as she was under the tree's patchy yet still colourful cover, Ruby spun around and gazed down at the spectacle, having the perfect – albeit far – view of the stage.

And just in time too, for the moment she did so, a catchy bubblegum pop tune she had heard looped over the radio for the past few days began to blast from the massive speakers positioned up front.

Out of the corner of her eye, Ruby noticed the crowd had been whipped into a frenzy as they jumped and screamed, all surging forward towards the stage while throwing their hands in the air.

But she paid them no heed. For what caught her eye and captured her attention were the five young, gorgeous females that swooped in and took the stage by storm. Confidence radiated from their pores as they sang their hearts out, hitting each note with seeming ease. And despite their white knee-high heeled boots and constrictive-looking rainbow coloured plaid skirts and vests, the girls simultaneously danced with flawless synchrony. Never once did the smiles on their face slip, even as their routine grew incredibly complex and fast-paced, prompting them to jump and twirl on stage to compliment the music's climbing beat.

Ruby felt her breath hitch, enraptured by the utter joy on their expressions as they performed for their fans – who were equally as energised by the pulsating music.

As soon as the first song ended, the crowd went wild, cheering and hollering for their favourite member. In spite of that, the quintet shifted gears and without missing a beat, used the energy from the previous song's finish as a pivot, immediately shifting into a hip-hop inspired dance intro for their second number precisely as the next intense song started playing.

The enthusiasm that electrified the air in the form of their fans' relentless yet harmonic cries, coupled with the song's simple yet memorable tune and the exuberant idols, sent a thrill of exhilaration through Ruby's body. Her heart began to palpitate erratically as she was whisked away by the zeal, and she subconsciously pumped her free arm lightly along to the beat of the current song.

She didn't even realise how she was no longer staring at five young, peppy girls buzz about. Instead, she found herself in a trance, watching a beautiful middle-aged woman at the mic belt out a song to her ardent fans as her long black locks covered her eyes. Not once did Ruby take her eyes off the woman, even when they began to water and sting from the biting chill; she was awestricken by the gorgeous lady who made a home on the platform, emitting comfort, poise and pure joy from her aura as she paced around the stage, gently swaying and moving to the melody. Ruby's mouth opened slightly – unconsciously – as she continued to gape at the singer, so spellbound by her performance that Ruby didn't even realise that she was holding in her breath.

As the woman crooned her last line, and the music began to fade out, her eyes slowly opened to reveal loving greys that stared straight at the nineteen-year-old. She flashed Ruby a warm smile.

Ruby exhaled in a rush as she finally blinked, snapping out her daze.

Something pricked at her eyes, though this time, it wasn't because of the cold November gust. The aspiring performer screwed her eyes shut.

Her mother. Her mother had brought her to one of her final performances when Ruby was just five. She watched as her mother – her guardian, her best friend, her role model, her _everything _– shine on stage; how she had looked and felt so happy, and how her audience had shared those feelings too.

How she had been touched by them too.

Ruby could never forget the torrid of emotions that had been invoked by her mother's breathtaking performance and welled up in her even until now.

She wanted to be capable of that as well.

"Thank you from the bottom of our hearts for attending our concert today!" she faintly heard from the stage. "We hope you've enjoyed our live, and we want to wrap it up with one final song! Is that okay with everyone?"

The rabid cheers were drowned out by her loud, ceaseless thoughts.

Her mother, much like her dreams, had always felt so close, yet so far. But when her mother had left her, it appeared as if they had only drifted further away, until Ruby could no longer reach either of them.

And so her memory slowly started to fade, just as her hopes began to dim, with each rejection she had been slapped with, with every attempt that had come to naught.

However, she remembered now.

It all came rushing back. This was why she wanted to be an idol. Not for the fame, nor the glory. She didn't need the recognition, and thought little of the money.

Those things were inconsequential; mere by-products of her dream. She wanted to be an idol like her mother. So she could spread joy and cheer. So she could be closer to her mother, to reach the stars.

To be amidst them and their warm, soothing comfort.

And she wouldn't let anything, or anyone, get in her way of that goal.

She refused to be disheartened by her failures; rejected the notion of giving up on her dreams. She was Ruby Rose!

She was her mother's daughter.

Nodding to herself, she felt once again filled to the brim with the confidence and vigour she thought had been crushed into fine dust and lost to the wind. Mentally thanking the idol group for their help, and wishing them all the best, Ruby walked away just as they began their next song. The aspiring idol lifted her coffee – which she had all but forgotten about until that moment of clarity – to her lips and took a sip. A beat passed before she pulled the cup away from her mouth and blanched.

It had gone cold.

* * *

Ruby trudged back to her apartment with a pout, staring down at the stale latte she had wasted.

Even the rediscovery of her drive wasn't enough to perk the girl up; not when she had technically lost seven and a half dollars in the process.

Coffee was too expensive, Ruby mulled sadly to herself, aimlessly swirling the cup in her hands. She knew that her sister would laugh at her worrying and offer to cover the costs in her stead, but it didn't make Ruby feel any better. '_Basic commodities shouldn't be so pricey!'_ she thought indignantly, her cheeks puffing out. And yet they jacked up the prices because of monopoly… or something.

Her colleague had tried to explain it to her, but she was never good at board games.

Busy with her musing, the crestfallen girl failed to notice a sharply dressed man stopped in the middle of the sidewalk in front of her apartment building, fiddling with his phone. Thus, it was only natural that Ruby would bump into the man and accidentally spill her coffee on the male's pressed suit. She stumbled back and stuttered an apology, dropping her now mostly-empty cup onto the ground to fumble for some sort of drying agent on her person. Realising she had nothing to wipe the spill clean with, the young female panicked and grabbed one end of her scarf, futilely scrubbing it against the bespoke jacket regardless of the fact that most of the liquid had already been absorbed into the wool.

Ruby continued to ramble apology after apology, until one of the man's hands came up and loosely gripped her wrist, pulling her arm away and making her drop her scarf in the process. That was when she became aware of the way his shoulders shook, and heard his light chuckles.

Glancing up resulted in a high-pitched yelp from the girl as she jerked away. She recognised the bespectacled man, although the crooked smile was new; he was completely stoic during the interview hours ago.

The man tilted his head. "Are you alright, child? Did I hurt you?"

"N-no!" Ruby stammered, frantically waving her hands to dispel the notion. "W-w-what are you doing here, sir? A-and I'm so sorry, I-I didn't mean to spill– how much do I have to pay to compensate–"

He chortled and shook his head. "You owe me nothing, Ruby Rose, other than an answer."

Gears whirred and alarms blared in Ruby's head as she stared bug-eyed in terror. "A-answer?" she squeaked. She gulped, feeling sweat bead on her armpits in spite of the cool weather. Her mind raced a mile a minute, burning through a long list of mistakes that she could have potentially done at the meeting. What err did she make that could have been devastating enough to cause one of the board members to personally travel to her residence? Had she offended their family? Or perhaps she went to the wrong bathroom? _Or what if she had stepped on a step that shouldn't have been stepped on?_

"Ruby?" the male gently prompted.

Said girl squealed, lifting her arms up to cover her head as she shrunk away, countenance akin to that of a cornered mouse.

He laughed uncomfortably, scratching his chin with remorse. "Please calm down," he said, tone apologetic after having read the various expressions – shock, fear, hysteria – Ruby's face contorted to. "Perhaps I should have phrased that a little better. I simply wanted to offer a place in my company as an idol trainee."

One of Ruby's eyes cracked open slightly as her body relaxed, enough so that she could peep out of the hole between her forearms. "H-huh?"

"Are you sure you want to be an idol, Ruby Rose?" the man asked, stepping closer to the nervous girl who was slowly dropping her arms back to her sides. "It's not all fun and games," he warned, staring into disbelieving and befuddled grey eyes. "Hours will be gruelling, and the industry is chocked full of bloodthirsty hounds. Not to mention the persistent media."

The man bent down low enough to be at eye-level with the stupefied nineteen-year-old. "You will never be the same person that you were before going into the business," he gravely cautioned. "Can you say, without a doubt in your mind, that you are willing to toss aside any semblance of normality for a shot at stardom you may not even receive?"

He leaned in closer – close enough for their noses to almost touch. "Are you _certain_ you wish to risk it all for a chance at nothing?" he whispered, stressing the gravity of the situation.

Ruby gulped. She was sweating under her jacket, her nerves were frayed, and her body trembled a touch, but her gaze never wavered as she replied in a voice just as hushed, "Yes."

He narrowed his piercing brown eyes. "Why?"

As if she were in a trance, Ruby confidently replied without pause, "Because it's always been my dream to make others smile."

The man remained unreadable. "And what makes you think you'll succeed?"

Her head shook subtly, though her eyes remained locked onto the grey-haired man's. "I don't think," she mumbled, not at all thrown or scared off by the remark, "I know."

The man pulled away slowly and straightened his form, all the while eyeing the abruptly serious female with an equally sober expression. He took his time brushing down his coat – avoiding the blotch of coffee in the process – before he adjusted his cufflinks and asked, "Do you know who I am?"

Ruby nodded once. "Of course. You're Ozpin, owner and founder of Vale Records." Her lips twitched. "It was on your name card back at the interview," she quipped.

A ghost of a smile played across Ozpin's face. "Correct," he affirmed.

"And we could use someone like yourself under our label."

* * *

**AN:** New project, start!

This has been in the works for _months_, and I'm glad I can finally release the first chapter to the public.

I realise that the 'idol' concept is foreign in most parts of the world. However, I'll be stripping away a lot of its intricacy and blending it with more Westernised ideas, in hopes that there'll be a mix of familiarity and discovery as we go along.

For anyone who couldn't stand the slow-burn romance of WFLT (assuming you've read my other RWBY stories), fair warning now: this story is likely _not for you._ It has, without a doubt, a slow buildup.

However, if you enjoyed the burn, or are willing to stick around regardless, thank you so much. I hope FFTB lives up to any expectations there may be, and that it pleases those who read it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Made in Japan**

_7 November 2014, Friday_

_10:04PM_

Weiss stood near the right exit, allowing the makeup artist to flitter about and fuss over her as the superstar collected herself.

"Miss Schnee, you're up in thirty," the stage manager said, not looking up from his wristwatch.

She nodded and closed her eyes as the makeup artist powdered her nose, completing the final touch-ups to her face.

He started counting down. "Twenty-five, twenty-four, twenty-thr–"

Weiss noted with interest how she felt neither the slightest twinge of anxiety nor excitement; not even pre-performance jitters, now. Her mind was a blank.

Strange, how things had changed over the years.

Born into wealth and raised in affluence, she was brought up to be the epitome of prim and proper. In addition to her wide variety of classes, both academic and extracurricular, she was trained to handle people with grace and poise. Even after being scouted during an important corporate dinner event at the age of twelve, Weiss kept her wits about her and was an example of the perfect recruit, even if her attitude was a lot more haughty than a trainee's should have been.

Nevertheless, she excelled at the tasks she was given, and after two years of intense grooming, was given the opportunity of a lifetime to perform beside the company's then - most renowned artiste. She recalled how she had absolutely lost her mind and panicked minutes before curtains were to rise, and how the artiste had comforted her – told her that no matter how many concerts or shows one could do, the overwhelming barrage of emotions would never go away. Not the frayed nerves, or bubbling nausea, and especially not the intense drumming in their chest. And that was okay.

Because it meant that they were still alive for the stage. That this still meant something.

"Ten, nine, eigh–" she heard, as the crew scuttled away, leaving her there to stand alone in her strapless mid-thigh white dress, staring out at the bright arena where the resounding cries of 'Encore!' originated from.

Weiss felt nothing but mild apathy, however.

She wasn't sure how to respond to it. It didn't even feel as disconcerting as she thought it would have been. _Should_ she have felt uncomfortable? Abashed? Ashamed?

She had carved an astounding legacy for herself in a span of just seven years. She was placed upon the highest of pedestals and given the greatest of honours by her adoring audience, fans and critics alike. By all accounts, any upcoming celebrity would have _killed_ to have such an impressive track record.

But she found herself constantly questioning what any of that ever meant anymore.

"–two, one!"

A small smile immediately stretched across her face as she strode forward, stepping into the spotlight. She waved enthusiastically to her adoring fans as she walked towards the mic stand in the middle of the giant platform, and the crowd reciprocated in kind with a deafening, feverish roar of anticipation and delight.

Again, there was a lack of adrenaline rushing through her veins, or thrill that ran down her spine, or butterflies in her stomach – the elation and skittishness she once held in spades had vanished, even as she witnessed her fans cheer wildly for her appearance.

For the life of her, Weiss couldn't recall when was the last time she felt that way. Nevertheless, she beamed even brighter.

For her fans, she forced herself to resolutely believe - or at the very least, look the part.

The second the reached the microphone, she greeted them for the second time that night with gusto and thanked them for their support, before seguing to a brief summary of her experience in the foreign country. Despite the language barrier, they still riotously hollered after each pause the superstar took between sentences. When she finally wrapped up her short yet sweet introduction, she glanced at the entire stadium.

Weiss thought she felt something flutter in her chest, but it died before she could chase the sensation. She had no time to spare, anyway.

"Please listen to the final song for the night, 'Mirror, Mirror'."

The zealous shouts from her audience grew louder. She removed the microphone from its stand and moved a few steps back, sucking in a breath as the lights dimmed and the arena fell silent. Tightening her grip on the mic, Weiss closed her eyes, listening to the opening chords – chords that she was so intimately familiar with.

The instant the song shifted into high-gear, and its pulsating beat reverberated around the closed stadium, the strobe lights came to life. As soon as the light focused on Weiss, her eyes flew open and she beamed, bringing her microphone to her lips to sing the first line as she danced to the tune.

The crowd exploded into another synchronised chant in between instrumental segments as they pumped their glowsticks in the air, along to the rhythm of the electronic snare this song was well-known for.

Something Weiss knew _shouldn't _have been, because that wasn't her arrangement for the piece. Rather, this version's composition and lyrics were an adaption of her original song; one that was heavily edited by the company's producers as a result of the increase in executive interference.

Yet her fans noted nothing of the radical change in her style over the past two years. And while their devotion moved her, she couldn't help but be upset over how they were so quick to buy into the new image.

A tiny voice in her head jeered, spouting venomous whispers about how she, as a person, as Weiss Schnee, was wholly ignored in favour of what she represented – who she pretended to be, to pander to an audience. It ridiculed her foolishness. For ever thinking Weiss Schnee, the person – could ever triumph Weiss Schnee, the acclaimed singer.

She managed to mute it that night, but she could not block out the fact that the voice in her head was getting louder – its message, stronger – each and every day.

The ending chords registered in Weiss's head as her limber body continued to subconsciously undulate and swing to the motion. Routine drilled into her like a clockwork, Weiss needed to divert no thought to the performance itself as the last note dragged out and she ended her dance with a flourish. _Just like we rehearsed,_ Weiss thought. _Like we rehearsed the last few thousand times._

Before leaving the stage, Weiss said one final thanks and goodbye to her screaming fans, waving and smiling as she walked away.

Her return backstage was met with applause and congratulations from her crew, who, after giving each other pats on the back, proceeded to celebrate the success of their world tour by popping a bottle of expensive champagne.

Weiss shot half-hearted smiles to the team and mumbled her thanks, but shook her head when they tried convincing her to join in on the festivities. "I'm sorry, it's been a long day…"

Understanding that the string of concerts and constant travelling must have taken their toll on the star, they profusely apologised for their oversight. The assembled crowd parted to give Weiss a clear path back to her dressing room, and encouraged Weiss to leave so she could change and return to the hotel for much overdue rest; some of the crew that had been with Weiss for awhile even offered to escort her back, but she waved off their concern with a quirked lip. "I'll be fine," she softly reassured. "Please, enjoy yourselves."

She gave the worried crew a polite nod. "If you'll excuse me," was all that left her lips before she shuffled back to her allocated room.

Once inside with the door shut, Weiss exhaled the breath that she had been holding. Her shoulders slumped as her mask fell, revealing an almost neutral expression, if not for the traces of gloom evident in the wrinkles around the corner of her lips. Shambling to the sole mirror in the room, Weiss flopped gracelessly onto the plush chair in front of it and begun the tedious task of removing the layer of cosmetics coating her face.

Scrubbing the makeup off took longer than expected, and further enervated the already weary singer. By the time she was done, Weiss could barely muster the strength to stagger to the curtained off corner and change out of her dress.

Midway through her wardrobe swap, she heard the door fly open, slamming into the wall behind it. A deep, jubilant voice cried, "Weiss!" as she noted the sound of heavy footsteps growing louder; only one man would be bold enough to enter with such a flippant, jolly attitude.

Her manager, Peter Port.

"I'm_ in-credibly_ proud of you, Weiss! That was a most excellent performance, _MOST_ excellent – perhaps your best yet! Outstanding show that should be commended! _Commended! _Bravo!"

Weiss pushed the curtain aside and doddered out of the corner, now dressed casually with huge sunglasses covering her eyes and a baseball hat pulled down to complete the ensemble. She mumbled a greeting to her manager, who plodded forward and curled a finger under her chin, tilting her head up for him to examine.

Peter stared at her for a beat before calmly stating, "Why, you look absolutely haggard, child."

One of the sides of Weiss's lips twitched upwards into a barely noticeable smirk. "Really?" she drawled. "I couldn't tell."

Peter shook his head disapprovingly. "Honestly, my dearest lady, you're pushing yourself far too hard." He released a weary sigh, dropping his hand and backing away from the singer to scrutinise her tired form. "Well, at the very least, this particular leg of the tour is complete. Done and over with. We finally get to return home!"

The idol hummed noncommittally, trudging to the nearby faux-leather couch that she had dumped her purse on. She rummaged through her bag and pulled out a surgical mask from one of the compartments, promptly using it to cover the lower half of her face.

Peter looked at her oddly.

Without missing a beat, Weiss said, "It's a habit I picked up."

Her manager nodded. The young superstar, himself and their small permanent crew had been mingling with various Japanese stars during their month-long stay, and it seemed only natural that Weiss would adopt a practice that aided anonymity. "Well now, I doubt that will help when we're back in America," he stated kindly.

Weiss shrugged. "It might," she airily retorted, picking up her purse. "Besides, it helps keep the chill at bay too." She looped her arm so that she could shoulder the handbag's handles. "So, where did you go, Mister Manager?"

Peter folded his arms across his puffed up chest. "Me? Why, I had to arrange for your ride, child! The car the organisers sent was much, _much_ too conspicuous, so I had a clever decoy enter and take a scenic drive around the city – and its marvellous narrow backroads, I might add, simply beautiful – for a few… hmm," the man rubbed his chin, "hours? Give or take. A relatively short amount of time, really, given the circumstances. But whatever the cause, we _always_ find a way," he finished with a smug look.

Weiss managed a low chuckle, relieved that she wouldn't have to deal with the paparazzi tonight. Peter was a brilliant manager and wonderful companion, in spite of all his hamminess. "I can always count on you."

He gave her a wink and thumbs up. "Well?" he asked, striding over to the young woman and offering his arm. "Shall we?"

* * *

She knew that she should have expected it, Weiss thought in mild exasperation as she stood a little ways beside the backdoor they just came out from. Her manager sauntered past her and stood proud and mighty next to his car of choice. Peter, while an absolute gem who was capable of completing the most difficult of managerial assignments, was also hideously eccentric.

So Weiss only felt a sliver of surprise when, after stepping out of the stadium's threshold, she found herself staring at a sparkling Nissan GT-R.

It was hot pink.

"Really?" Weiss said in monotone, quirking a shaped eyebrow.

"Of course! No soul would _ever_ suspect a thing." Peter patted the hood of the car lovingly. "Furthermore, I wanted to see if the colour matched before I made the exorbitant purchase back home. I think it's quite ravishing, don't you? What a marvel."

"It's… something, I'll give you that much," Weiss conceded.

Peter motioned for the singer to come closer as he walked around to the driver's seat.

When both of them slid into the car, Weiss removed all her headgear and leaned back into the soft leather passenger seat with a long, exhausted sigh. Her manager chortled, shifting about to buckle himself in. Only after Weiss leisurely secured her seatbelt did he start the engine.

As they cruised down Tokyo's messy roads in the eye-catching vehicle, a pleasant still settled over them. Only the car's built-in GPS – which spoke solely in Japanese, forcing Peter to actually pay attention to the instructions – broke the quiet.

Noting they got onto the highway and were set for a straightaway for the next few minutes, the tick on Peter's forehead receded as he relaxed his grip on the steering wheel. He glanced out of his peripheral to look at his charge, who rested her chin on the arm propped upon the window sill, staring inscrutably at the scenery whizzing by.

Peter cleared his throat. "We'll be departing for Haneda airport tomorrow at about eleven in the morning," he informed the singer. "Our flight takes off at three, thus we'll have an ample amount of time to partake in a leisurely lunch. You could also indulge yourself with a bit of souvenir shopping, if you so choose. I'm sure your guards would appreciate the change of pace."

No response. Peter pursed his lips. He knew the singer heard him, though. Weiss wasn't one for turning a blind eye or deaf ear to those she respected.

The manager tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. "Moreover, you should have the next few days free, assuming nothing pops up - and I truly hope nothing does."

Weiss shifted a bit. Her schedule was always jammed pack because of her popularity, and since her contract said nothing of obligatory off-days, the singer recognised that Peter had stepped in to clear her schedule. "Thank you," she gratefully whispered, the sound muffled by her arm.

Peter smiled. "It's well-deserved," he replied in a tone just as hush.

The GPS spouted another sentence in Japanese, which made Peter fumble and directed his gaze to the tiny screen affixed below the air-conditioning units.

He had missed the exit.

"Oh, _CONSARN_ it all!"

* * *

After another twenty minutes of back-tracking and driving around the chaotic metropolis, they finally arrived at their hotel – The Dai-Ichi – which they found nestled away near one of the exits for Shinbashi station.

Handing his car over to the valet, the manager, completely drained of the energy he had, slogged up the stairs into the lobby and straight to the lift with Weiss. In the confined space, Peter dug two keycards out of his coat and passed one to Weiss. When the lift stopped at their floor, and its doors opened, Weiss waited for her manager to leave first so that Peter could lead the way.

She trailed behind him until he reached the end and gestured to the room he stood in front of. "Your room, my dear." He pointed to the door a few metres down the hall. "I'll be in the next room over if you need me."

Weiss smiled and approached her door, sliding the card into the lock. Upon pulling it out, she twisted the handle and pushed just as the tiny light turned green, entering the massive hotel room.

Before the singer shut her door, she peeked out of the crack of her door and looked at her unmoving manager. "Goodnight, Port."

He beamed. "Rest well, my child."

The door gently closed.

Peter Port exhaled, eyes showing concern as he stared at the door for a few beats, before ambling into his room.

Sat on his queen-sized bed, the manager went through the customary motions of contacting the head of security and transportation to arrange for tomorrow. Once everything had been said and done, he hung up his cellphone. The lock screen brightly displayed the time: 11:54PM.

Releasing a steady drawn-out sigh, Peter stood up and stretched noisily, deciding to get ready for bed. Precisely as he shucked off his shirt and prepared to pad off to his bathroom to run a hot bath, his phone vibrated. A quick glance at the display showed it was Ozpin calling him. The manager's eyebrows furrowed, and without hesitation, he accepted the call.

"Peter," he heard as he brought the phone to his ear.

"Hello, Ozpin," he courteously replied. "What could be important enough that you would call at almost seven in the morning?"

"I need you to bring Weiss into my office on Sunday."

Peter's expression turned stony. "... I'm afraid that's not possible, old friend." Recognising that this could be a long conversation, the manager paced over to the curtains in his room and drew them far apart enough for him to see out of the massive window at the beautiful cityscape.

The manager thought he heard the faint sound of scribbling over the receiver stop. "She has other appointments?" Ozpin asked.

"Yes," Peter answered, tone deathly serious. "She has her entire day booked by what we mere mortals would call 'rest and relaxation'."

"Peter, this is urgent. There's someone I–"

"Is the issue truly grave enough for you to shuttle an exhausted young lady – barely out of her _teens_ might I remind you – from her six month long tour straight to your office without even a day of respite?" he vehemently interrupted.

A pause, followed by the shuffling of papers.

"I certainly didn't think so," Peter said softly.

He turned to lean against the window, the cool glass on his back a peculiar but welcomed sensation. "One day is all I ask, Ozpin," he pleaded. "Grant her that much, for all she has contributed to the company."

The shuffling stopped. "... Very well." Ozpin sucked in a breath, delaying his next sentence for a beat or two. "I'm sorry, I…"

"Oh no no, it's quite alright," Peter cut in perceptively. "I truly understand that you've been under a lot of mounting pressure since the major shareholders changed. Fret not, my friend. You need not explain a thing."

He heard a sigh from the receiver. "Fretting is all I seem to be capable of doing nowadays, Peter."

Peter pushed himself off the window. He started to stroll to his bathroom across the room. "It doesn't sound as such. Your tone seems to suggest you have a plan up your sleeve, Ozpin."

Ozpin let out a hoarse dubious chuckle. "Here's hoping that it doesn't backfire spectacularly." He sighed again. "Nevertheless, can I expect to see Weiss on Monday?"

The manager's lips thinned. He did wish Weiss could get more rest, but he also believed that Ozpin knew what he was doing. "It appears that we've come to a compromise, old friend."

"Fantastic. Rest well then, and I apologise for anything I may have interrupted."

Peter replied with a brief farewell, before he ended the call. Haphazardly tossing his phone onto the bed, he glided into the washroom.

He would tell Weiss about her new appointment tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Of All The Bullheaded Ideas**

_10 November 2014, Monday_

_6:47AM_

Blake crossed her arms and stared at the empty studio with a sigh.

She was at least three hours early, since she expected that she would need to help set up the photo shoot. Blake hadn't realised she would end up being the _only _one to be there. Granted, Adam had warned her that the crew was typically sparse to reduce the chances for information leaks, yet this was simply absurd. Perhaps she had gotten the time wrong?

The freelance photographer pulled out her smartphone from her ratty trench coat's pocket and swiped the screen, deftly entering her passcode. When the phone unlocked, she tapped on the little calendar application.

Photo session – 10AM.

Her lips thinned. She was definitely right on time; to set up the background, lighting fixtures and adjust the camera and laptop would take a while, _especially_ if she was working solo.

She ran a hand through her jet-black hair in exasperation. This was ridiculous. Had they really not hired anyone else? Or was the rest of the crew simply late? She shoved her phone back into her pocket in annoyance and bent down to pick up the equipment she had lugged along: her DSLR, its tripod stand, and her laptop, along with their various cables. Hefting them into her arms, she walked to the middle of the room and set them down on the floor, before glancing around in hopes of finding a sturdy table to safety keep her gadgets on. Spotting one hidden away in the corner, Blake strode to it and checked its stability by pressing her weight onto it. It passed her test with flying colours, and with a content smile, Blake hauled it back to the centre of the studio.

After she placed all of her equipment on the work surface, she dug out her phone from her overcoat and stuffed it into her jean pocket, before she shucked off her thick winter coat and tossed it aside so it wouldn't impede her movements. The studio was beginning to warm up anyway; the bright lights overhead she had turned on, coupled with the building's superb thermostat, made it so Blake felt as if she would have begun to sweat at any moment had she continued keeping her jacket on.

Once that task was complete, Blake proceeded to look around for closets or rooms that could house the rest of the necessary equipment she required. As she did so, she mulled over what – or rather, who – had wheedled her into this job in the first place. One of her old orphanage companions and surrogate elder brother, Adam Taurus.

Left at an orphanage in a town on the outskirts of Los Angeles at a young age, Blake Belladonna made fast friends with Adam, a boy five years her senior who had been dumped there recently after his parents perished in a car accident.

The citizens in the surrounding area either lacked the funds or responsibility to take in children, thus adoption was rare. Moreover, despite the kindly caretaker's efforts, the orphanage found itself constantly scrimping by on the measly sum donated by the government and occasional samaritans. The children there – Blake and Adam in particular – led a tough life growing up, creating a sense of dependency and trust between each other.

It was only when Adam turned eighteen, and thus became a legal adult within the eyes of the state, that their lives really began to change. Leaving the orphanage, Adam went on to experiment with various odd jobs he could find around the vicinity to pay for his living expenses. Any money he had leftover, however, he split between donating to the orphanage and giving directly to the orphans there so that they could pursue their ambitions. He specifically encouraged her to pursue a career in the arts, having seen the poetry and stories she crafted as they aged together, and acted as a benefactor for most of her teenage years.

In some ways, Blake thought, he was more of a father figure than anything else.

With the money, Blake was able to self-study and create beautiful pieces for her portfolio over the next few years. That, and her remarkable SAT scores in hand, awarded her a scholarship to one of the most prestigious liberal arts Universities within the state.

To save on bills, they stayed together while Blake went through school. And they would have still been living with one another, if not for the fact that Adam had suddenly up and left one day, claiming that he wanted to travel the world and reinvent himself.

By no means was Blake Belladonna upset about that. He was still paying his share of the flat, after all. Furthermore, she was _glad _Adam could finally live life for himself after all the unnecessary hardship he had put up with.

'_But did he really have to accept jobs that he can't do and shoulder it off to me?'_ she thought in frustration, towing along the studio lights she had found stowed away in a closet back to the set.

She understood that the man was still looking out for her, as he always did, and she accepted that she did in fact need a well-paying assignment to pay this month's expenses; a relatively fresh college graduate – even from a reputable University such as her own – would struggle with finding a stable artistic career in the current economy.

However, the petulant part of her _hated_ how Adam knew her so well, even through a Skype call. She hadn't even _hint _to the fact that she was job trawling before the man handed off information about one of his ex-client's photographers all falling ill, and how he was searching for a good temporary replacement. Adam then revealed that he had recommended Blake, and she started the gig Monday.

Which explained how she ended up here. But Blake admittedly still felt slightly infuriated that the man managed to manipulate everything in his favour. One day, she would exact her revenge. The time where she was successful enough to reject the assignments Adam offloaded to her was all too sweet a thought.

Nonetheless, at this very moment, she couldn't afford to turn down this task; not when it paid as much as it did for the work she had to do. It was a generous sum – five thousand for the whole shebang – and while editing would drain much of her week, she could live frugally off the earnings for at least another month or so.

That incentive in mind, Blake rolled up her turtleneck's sleeves and soldiered on, gathering the various equipment she needed and beginning the process of setting each one up alone.

An hour or so later, Blake finished hanging up the white muslin background and had moved onto distancing and angling her tripod for the shoot. She hunkered down next to the stand and fiddled with the knobs, deciding that she could fine-tune her camera's settings when she got the lights working.

Blake's perceptive ears detected rustling coming from the doorway, a sign that another person had finally arrived. _'About time,_' she groused to herself. Out of the corner of her eyes, Blake became aware that it was a female blonde who had entered the room, munching on a croissant sandwich. Blake's stomach gurgled noisily, reminding the photographer that she had skipped breakfast that morning.

A blush lightly dusted her cheeks, but Blake powered on, hoping the blonde hadn't heard the noise.

Her plea went unheeded. Blake jumped, falling to her buttocks and almost knocking over her tripod stand in the process when she heard a chuckle right next to her ear. The photographer turned around to see the blonde – who she now noticed was not only beautiful but also very fashionably dressed – flash her an apologetic smile. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's fine," Blake replied quickly, trying to calm her racing heart.

The blonde grinned. "Why don't I make it up to you?" she offered, reaching into her tote bag to extracted a small white cardboard box.

Blake glanced at the container and then the blonde, confusion and uncertainty in her eyes. The blonde simply stretched her arm, almost pushing the box into the photographer's hand. "Take it!"

Blake hesitantly took the box. Slowly opening it revealed the remaining half of the enticing croissant sandwich. The photographer gulped, trying to control her salivating as she examined the luxurious breakfast choice; a thick layer of smoked salmon wedged between the two cream cheese slathered halves of buttery, flaky pastry.

"Are you sure?" Blake rasped, staring up in awe at who she deemed to be an angel in mortal clothes.

The blonde casually shrugged. "Why not? It sounded like you're hungry."

Still sat on the floor, Blake lifted the sandwich to her lips, taking a small, tentative bite. Chewing on the succulent morsel sent her tastebuds into overdrive, and the photographer subsequently scarfed down the gift as gracefully as she could.

The blonde squatted elegantly next to Blake. "So what's your name?" she asked with a bright smile. "I've never seen you around before."

Blake swallowed her food before introducing herself, "Blake. Blake Belladonna. I'm the replacement for whoever would have been the photographer."

"Ahh," she nodded, "I see. Then you must be pretty good!" the blonde exclaimed. "I'm Yang. Nice to meet you!"

Blake blinked, taken aback by the raw enthusiasm Yang projected. "Likewise." She cleared her throat. "So what–"

"Oh, right!" Yang blurted, ferreting through her bag. She pulled out a sealed bottle of Evian water and placed it in front of Blake. "Here!"

Freelancing _never _paid that well, Blake thought, mouth agape. Just who _was _this woman, and what did she do to be able to afford expensive bottled water so freely? "I can't take this," the photographer adamantly declined, trying to pass the bottle back.

Yang crossed her arms and stood up, a large grin plastered across her face. "Of course you can!"

The studio door flew open before Blake could get another word out. Both their heads swivelled to look at the perky pink-haired newcomer, whose eyes lit up when they met Yang's.

"Yang!" the new girl cried, bouncing up to the beautiful blonde.

Said blonde rested a hand on her hip. "Nora!" she greeted. "How are you?"

"I'm as super as ever!" she responded cheerfully. "But what about _you_, Yang? You're _never _early for a photo shoot! At least, not without being super cranky."

Yang's expression turned smug. "Well–"

Nora interrupted her sentence with a dramatic gasp. "Wait. You're _early_ and _not crabby_. Is this a dream?" Her eyes sparkled with hope as she clasped her hands together and did a little twirl. "Does this mean _I_ get to be the model?"

Yang faked indignation. "Hey, I didn't know you were eyeing up my job!"

Nora stopped herself mid-spin and snapped her fingers. "Drat, I've been found out."

They stared at each other for a moment before laughing boisterously.

Meanwhile, Blake recovered from an imperceptible wince; not only had she been terribly casual with her client, but she also gorged herself on said client's breakfast. Regardless, that didn't stop her from eyeing them cautiously as she got to her feet and broke the bottle's seal, taking a sip of water. After all, it would be a shame if the present went wasted, and she _was _parched. _'So Yang's the model,' _she thought,_ 'That explains a lot.'_

On hindsight, Blake also subconsciously thought that it was somewhat obvious, with how attractive and seemingly well-built the blonde was under all those layers.

When Blake snapped out of her reverie, she suddenly found herself staring into big turquoise eyes. She jerked away, almost spitting a mouthful of water out in the process, though she managed to save it with a desperate gulp. The photographer considered herself hideously unlucky when the drink went down the wrong pipe.

Nora tilted her head. "Who are you?" she inquired.

Blake couldn't respond, occupied with hacking her lungs out. Yang giggled and stepped forward, taking the initiative. "Nora, that's Blake," she said, gesturing to the woman who managed to subdue her choking to a minimal, "our new photographer. Blake, this is Nora, makeup artist extraordinaire."

Nora waved. "Hello!" She leaned in close to the coughing photographer and mock-whispered, "Make sure to take some sexy shots of Yang, okay?" She glanced up and pondered over her own words for a minute before she said, "Well, every picture Yang's in tends to be _really _hot…"

Blake flushed slightly as her coughing fit worsened. She was glad she had an excuse _not _to speak.

Yang grinned shamelessly. "What can I say? The camera loves me."

Nora twisted around and closed one eye, using her fingers to create a rectangle to frame the mischievous blonde in. "You betcha it does, dollface!"

As they shared another laugh, a swath of people began to stream in. Blake glanced at her watch. 8:26AM.

The makeup artist seized her arm and yanked it so she could look at the time. "Whoops!" she cried, releasing the vice she had on Blake's arm, "Would ya look at the time?" She reached around and grabbed Yang's hand, "C'mon, we gotta go make you look fabulous-er!"

They zipped off, leaving Blake to stare in befuddlement at their shrinking backs. However, the photographer couldn't stare for long; she was quickly approached by the influx of newcomers who voiced their admiration of her work ethics and apologised for not telling her in advance of their schedule. She sheepishly waved them off, but they would have none of it, insisting that they have the responsibility to carry out the remainder of their jobs. Blake didn't argue. After all, why bother fighting for more work? Her reputation certainly didn't hinge on this. On top of that, many promised they would put in a good word for her to the management. The photographer simply smiled gratefully. The gesture was unnecessary, since she didn't plan on pursuing this as a career, but sweet. Perhaps she could use this experience as a stepping stone.

With that settled, they wordlessly moved to finish arranging the rest of the fixtures, allowing Blake to tinker with her personal equipment.

After everything was readied and operational, some of the crew moved to dim the lights as everybody waited patiently for the star of the show to arrive.

The wait didn't take long. Doors leading to a long hallway Blake had traversed hours ago – and Yang and Nora left in the direction of – burst open, flooding the room with light so bright that Blake had to squint for her eyes to slowly adjust to the change. Nora flounced in, holding the door open with a flourish.

The Yang that crossed the threshold between hallway and studio made Blake's breath hitch.

Light brown stiletto thigh-high boots covered her toned legs, exposing a small strip of inviting skin between them and a pair of criminally short jean shorts that peeked out from under the baggy white wool sweater Yang wore. The simple yet enticing outfit was topped off by an embroidered black beanie that accentuated her lush blonde mane. On closer inspection, Blake noticed that the headgear was cat-themed.

Coupled with the blonde's charming megawatt grin and the effortless poise she held as she glided to the muslin background, Blake could _thoroughly_ understand why she was a model; and gauging from the size of the photographer's paycheck, a highly successful one at that.

As the crew bustled about, performing the final preparations now that the model appeared, Blake hyped herself while pretending to fiddle with her DSLR's settings.

She was nervous. Legitimately 'butterflies in one's stomach' nervous. While Blake was no amateur, having earned multiple photography accolades for her University during a requisite module, she _never_ had to work with a professional model before. What was she supposed to say? How was she supposed to direct Yang? _Was _she supposed to, in the first place? Would she be infringing on some sort of unspoken rule between renown model and stand-in photographer if she did?

Each tumultuous thought only whipped her further into a frenzy.

Thankfully, Yang seemed to detect her apprehension and unease. "Blake!" she called with a smile. "All set?"

Blake snapped out of her daze and nodded. The confidence Yang exuded imparted itself somewhat on the photographer, and after sucking in a deep breath, Blake hunched over and looked through the viewfinder.

Without any prompting, Yang's body skilfully twisted in a way that enhanced her busty features as she slipped seamlessly into a trance. Her smile suddenly softened into a small sensual smirk as she stared into lens with bedroom eyes.

Blake's heart was in her mouth as she suppressed a shudder. She unsteadily pressed down on the shutter button a few times, adjusting the zoom on her camera every once in awhile to capture different angles of the model.

Yang, showcasing her professionalism and expertise within the industry, constantly changed her position every few clicks; she smoothly transitioned from the first pose into one that hiked her shorts enough to give the illusion of her wearing nothing under her oversized sweater, before she switched gears entirely and faced the photographer, buckling her knees a little and resting her hands on her thighs as she bent forward. She held a finger to her lips, and then winked and blew the camera a kiss.

Blake's finger froze.

"Yang!" Nora yelled from the side, "This isn't a gravure or glamour shoot! Fashion for teens! Ixnay on the exysay!"

The blonde's body slackened, as if she had just woken up from a hypnotic state. She blinked a few times before grinning apologetically. "Oh, sorry about that! Had a lot of those gigs recently." She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, regulating her breathing for a few seconds. When her eyelids flew open, Blake saw none of the passionate haze that clouded and darkened her eyes earlier. Instead, they were a bright shade of lilac.

Practically supercharged, the model immediately swung into high-gear; one of her legs lifted up so her calf touched the back of her knee as she gave the camera her signature grin, flashing it a peace sign. After a few seconds, she grounded her foot as her legs splayed themselves shoulders-width apart. Giving the lens a playful wink, Yang moved the hand with the peace sign to frame her open eye.

This momentum carried on for a couple of hours or so, though Blake would have sworn the duration that passed was much shorter. They occasionally paused for quick breaks, allowing Yang to change into a variety of different ensembles arranged by the brand they were hired by. That said, the shoot came to a close when Yang – now in fuzzy ankle-high shoes, a plaid black and white skirt, stylised t-shirt and hooded winter varsity jacket – flawlessly executed a jump with both feet.

Blake slowly leaned away from the viewfinder and glanced at her almost-forgotten laptop to stare at the latest picture. Eternalised in all her glory was an ecstatic Yang looking as if she were having the time of her life, framed perfectly in mid-air.

Blake exhaled. "I… think that's it," she muttered.

Nora, who over the course of the photo shoot shuffled closer to peep at the laptop, flapped her lips. "That's not how you end things!"

Blake's eyebrows furrowed with uncertainty. "Uh… That's… a wrap?" she tried.

The pink-haired makeup artist gave her a toothy grin. "Better," Nora replied.

Yang clapped, walking off the muslin backdrop. "Thank you for your hard work today, everybody!"

The crew joined in on the applause, returning the sentiment. However, while everyone else mingled and exchanged thanks, Blake switched her attention to her laptop. She scrolled through the bevy of photos, mentally marking the ones in particular that stood out to her, before she reached the initial few images.

As the photographer noticed Yang amble in her direction from her periphery, Blake couldn't help but call her over with a tentative, "Uh, excuse me, Miss Yang?"

"Woah," Yang said, walking up to the freelancer, "don't call me that, Blake. Just Yang will do! Anyway, what's up? Great job, by the way."

Blake scratched her jaw. "Thank you. I was just wondering, what do I do with the… earlier batch of pictures?"

"Hm?" Yang leaned over to peek at the screen. "Oh, those. You can keep them."

Blake started. "What? Why would I–"

Yang guffawed. "Don't look so shocked! I was joking." The model bent closer to scrutinise the photos. "Hmm," she hummed pensively, reaching for the trackpad. She scrolled through the handful of images they considered too sultry for the fashion magazine with a poker-face. A few tense beats later, Yang straightened her posture and crossed her arms. "These are actually _really _good," she praised, expression impressed as she stared at Blake.

"Tell you what," she continued, not letting Blake interject, "Why don't you send these to my manager? I think they'd look great on my portfolio." Without waiting for a reply, Yang proceeded to key her manager's email address into the photographer's laptop. "Oh, we'll pay you for them too! Don't worry."

Stunned by the expeditious pace Yang fired at, Blake could only manage to unsurely respond with, "No, I wasn't worried about that. I'll… be sure to send them over, then."

The blonde nodded happily as she finished typing the contact information. "So freelance, huh?" the model remarked. "Must be nice, having that sort of freedom."

It was Blake's turn to lean down and tap away at her keyboard. "It's rewarding, though you find yourself just barely scraping by, for the most part."

"I get that," Yang said, nodding sympathetically. "So what made you want to be a photographer?"

Blake's lips thinned. The photographer wondered if she should answer that.

Yang, seeing the hesitance, backpedalled. "I'm sorry, if you don't want to talk about it–"

"Desperation," the freelancer said honestly. "Photography's only a hobby that I use to get by on the occasions I find a decent-paying job. I'm actually a writer, but this city is choked full of aspiring hopefuls, so competition is stiff."

Yang's eyebrows shot up. "A writer? That's awesome! I can totally see you doing that stuff. So, scripts? Or novels maybe?"

A small smile worked its way onto Blake's face; rarely did people take a genuine interest in her profession, let alone a prosperous model. "The latter, though I've taken scriptwriting classes in University."

"Oooh, cool. So you're a University graduate?"

Blake nodded. "I graduated last autumn."

Yang pursed her lips, moving her fingers slightly as she calculated the photographer's age in her head. "So that would make you… twenty-one?" she guessed.

Blake nodded again.

The blonde smiled broadly. "That would make us the same age, then! Except y'know, I didn't go through University." She scratched the back of her head self-consciously. "Modelling takes a lot out of you, and since it's bringing home the bacon…"

The photographer canted her head. Did Yang feel embarrassed for not having pursued higher education? "What you do is incredibly admirable," Blake reassured. "It's not easy, being a model when you consider how this industry is run."

Yang's stance relaxed. "Glad you understand it. Not many people do, y'know?"

Before either could get another word in, Nora ran in-between them, vibrating cellphone in hand. "Yang!" she huffed. "Your manager!"

Yang sighed and motioned for the phone. When it was given to her, the blonde brought it to her ear and drawled, "You're late."

She rolled her eyes at whatever her manager had to say in response. "No excuses!" she proclaimed. "The next time _I'm_ late, _you_ have no right to complain."

After a few beats, her expression soured. She glanced out of the corner of her eye at Blake's laptop. "Now?" she asked reluctantly.

Judging from the loud groan that slipped from the model's mouth, Blake knew the reply Yang received was not the one she desired.

"Alright, alright," Yang grumbled, mouthing a hasty 'I'm sorry' to Blake and Nora as she slowly walked backwards towards the hallway. "Send me a– there's one out there already? You're such a _slavedriver_. Tell the driver I'll be out in five. And you _better _treat me to lunch." She hung up the call. Staring purposefully at Blake, she pointed a finger at the photographer. "Send us the pictures," she demanded before spinning on her heel to bolt for the changing room.

They watched her sprint away until she finally disappeared behind the double doors. Nora grabbed the distracted Blake's watching-wearing arm and wrenched it to eye level. With an exaggerated gasp, she shouted, "I'm late!" Then, she too ran off in the direction of the hallway. However, midway to her destination, the makeup artist turned back for a second and waved her arm earnestly. "See you around, Blakey!"

The dumbfounded photographer could only stare vacantly at her retreating form. When she also vanished from sight, Blake gradually recovered enough sense to shut her laptop and pack up her equipment.

Just what had Adam gotten her into?

* * *

**AN:** Every time I have to describe a scene – concerts, model shoots, etc – I always fear that I'll sound repetitive, or that I run the risk of failing to evoke the feelings I want to. However, FFTB kiiinda demands them, so… learning process.

Been feeling under the weather, so pardon me for the slightly delayed update, and for any mistakes or typos that I may have missed.

Teaser that may or may not be edited:

She laughed and attempted to cover the coffee stain with her arm, mortified that Ozpin still remembered their earlier episode. Ruby glanced up to look her new employer in the eye with a smart retort at the tip of her tongue, but instead of meeting keen browns, Ruby found herself staring into mesmerising ice-blue eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Monday Blues**

_10 November 2014, Monday_

_7:36AM_

Ruby waved goodbye to her sister through the window, who leisurely departed the quaint coffeehouse Ruby had found days prior. Unbeknownst to Ruby at the time, Yang regularly frequented this particular location – to the extent that she was acquainted with every employee – because of its close vicinity to her manager's office and many of the available studios for photo sessions.

Coincidentally, Ruby discovered through a phone call with Ozpin on Sunday that the location happened to be within walking distance to Vale Record's headquarters as well. So, when Yang learnt this tidbit that morning after being awoken at an ungodly time because of the ruckus Ruby caused at home due to her restlessness, it only seemed natural for the blonde to force her younger sister into paying for breakfast.

Despite her infinitely better pay.

Ruby pouted, using her spoon to create little designs using the remaining foam in her second vanilla latte. It wasn't fair. Just because she couldn't sleep and decided work off some excess steam in their apartment at six in the morning, doesn't mean she was completely responsible for rousing the blonde from slumber. Maybe she was already on the verge of wakefulness already! Yang was a heavy sleeper, Ruby had thought, so who could blame her for assuming a _little _noise wouldn't jar the model from her beauty sleep?

Yang, apparently. She was never a morning person, and waking up to the sound of shrill cries and heavy footsteps – which Ruby defended as 'light pacing' – only made her more irritable. After she reprimanded her sister and took a revitalising hour bath, the blonde interrogated Ruby. Once she heard her sister's case, the model claimed to know a solution that would answer both their problems, before swiftly dragging her along to 'The Rabbit Hole'. It was only when they were in front of the building that Ruby realised it was the same coffee joint she had stumbled upon after her audition.

Ruby sighed, taking slow sips of her drink as she mulled over the hole Yang burnt in her wallet. Her sister was an unforgiving one, Ruby sulked. A quick check of her wristwatch showed that she still had a good twenty minutes to kill.

Perhaps she could purchase something for Ozpin and whoever she was to meet, as a sign of goodwill? A peace offering would likely help her make a better impression, Ruby thought. She pondered over it, weighing out her pros and cons. It didn't take long to come to a decision.

Convincing herself that presenting them with some of the store's delectable treats and beverages would prove more a boon than anything else, Ruby determinedly nodded. She downed the rest of her latte in one shot before striding to the cashier. Then, after asking for the cashier's recommendations, Ruby bought them with a swipe of her debit card, disregarding her bank account's relatively poor state.

It would pay off in the long run, Ruby thought with a grin as she took the carefully bagged items placed upon the countertop.

However, as she neared the door, an unattentive young blonde bumped into side as he too tried to rush for the exit. While Ruby was able to regain her balance, the bumbling man was knocked down gracelessly and unfortunately managed to spill her drinks on the pristine grey coat she wore – a coat her sister had loaned her.

The heat of her beverages didn't permeate through the thick fabric, though Ruby cringed regardless, feeling the uncomfortable wetness soak through her clothes beneath. Nevertheless, she apologised to the fallen male. The dazed blonde stuttered an apology as well, slowly getting to his feet. As he did so, he winced, noticing how expensive the coat looked. He rubbed the back of his neck remorsefully, using his other hand to gesture to the blotch. "I'm sorry, that looks really bad."

Ruby nervously laughed it off. "Yeah. It wouldn't matter if this coat were mine, but I kinda borrowed it from my sister." Ruby grimaced. "She's… not going to be very happy about this."

"Uh, why don't I make it up to you?" The blonde fumbled for his messenger bag, digging out a pen and business card. "My name is Jaune," he said, scrawling his name and number on the back of the card. "Uhm, call the number that I wrote – that's my private number. I'll cover whatever dry-cleaning costs that coat racks up."

The nineteen-year-old accepted the card he handed her and immediately flipped it around to appraise it, much to Jaune's disbelief.

Ruby read the business card to herself before quirking an eyebrow. "Chinese takeout?"

Jaune laughed sheepishly. "Business cards are expensive?" he tried as an excuse.

Ruby giggled. A quick glimpse at the clock hung above the door made her reel back with a panicked gasp, however.

She had five minutes to reach the office.

Jaune's eyebrows knitted in confusion. "Uh, are you alri–" was all that managed to leave his lips before Ruby ploughed past him.

"Sorry gotta go I'll call you soon bye!" Ruby blurted hastily as she dashed out of the coffeehouse, coffee-soaked paper bags in hand.

Jaune watched her leave in befuddlement, before his eyes bulged out in alarm, realising that he was running even later than _before_. Without another thought, the man bolted out of the store, waving frantically out on the streets in an attempt to flag down a taxi.

* * *

_10 November 2014, Monday_

_8:21AM_

Ruby grazed past a suited man – almost toppling him over in the process – as she slid through the narrow gap between Vale Records building's closing automated doors just in the nick of time.

Not pausing to catch her breath or fix her wind-tousled hair and outfit, she ran up to the receptionist's counter and, with a crazed look in her eyes, frantically asked for directions to Ozpin's office. It took awhile for the receptionist to understand what Ruby said, but once she did, the terrified woman nervously stuttered a floor number and pointed behind her at the line of lifts.

The instant it registered in Ruby's mind, she bolted off for the lift without another word. Again, she performed another death-defying manoeuvre, slipping into the elevator before its doors completely shut. Ignoring the startled people that crept away from her within the confined space, the teenager stood in front of the now unattended buttons like a woman possessed and jabbed her finger repeatedly against the icon for highest level available: the 50th floor.

Each stop of the lift that _wasn't_ the fiftieth frayed Ruby's already on edge nerves, even as her fellow lift users shaved off a couple of seconds by darting out of the boxy metal deathtrap as soon as they reached their respective floors. When the final, bordering on hysterical man sprinted out of the elevator with his briefcase clenched tightly to his chest, Ruby stabbed the close button, bouncing impatiently from foot to foot as she watched the number indicated on the lift's digital interface slowly climb.

40… 41… 42…

The young girl felt as if her heart would burst out from her chest at any moment, with how rapidly it drummed. Her gut twisted and turned, forcing Ruby to swallow hard as she fought to suppress her gag reflex.

46… 47...

This was it. The moment she had been waiting for, for the past fourteen years. Ever since she saw her mother up on stage; especially after her mother's swift departure.

49...

She couldn't afford to screw it up.

The elevator came to a smooth stop – a testament to the building's excellent architectural and technological structure. Its shiny silver doors opened, presenting a large, rather empty hallway sporting red and gold motifs. As she nervously stepped out of the lift, her footfalls were cushioned by the soft red carpet covering the floor. Her eyes flittered about uncomfortably, taking in the trademarked Vale Records logo emblazoned in gold along the cream walls as she paced towards the imposing double doors flanked by two muscular guards; no doubt leading to Ozpin's office.

Ruby stopped in front of them, and had to look up to stare into their sunglasses.

If she had to think of an analogy, the best one Ruby could come up with was a mouse quaking in front of its impassive feline predator as it moved for the kill.

Before she could even stutter a word, both guards nodded and pushed open the doors for her. They gestured for her to enter, and she did so without complaints; it would be stupid to question the cat as to why it spared the mouse, after all.

Having expected to see Ozpin behind his no doubt impressive desk, Ruby was somewhat disappointed, yet relieved, when she saw an austere bespectacled blonde woman behind the table instead. Her hands locked together and placed on the desk, the blonde woman seemed to scrutinise Ruby with sharp viridescent eyes.

Ruby gulped, feeling those eyes probe deep into the fibre of her being. Every part of Ruby screamed for her to _cower _in fear.

But she remained in place, albeit not being the 'perfectly still' posture she wanted; Ruby could feel small involuntary shivers shoot through her body.

Nevertheless, it appeared to please the intimidating woman. She elegantly got to her feet and paced towards the tense teenager, extending a hand when they were within arms reach to one another. "Good morning. My name is Glynda Goodwitch, and I am Ozpin's secretary, in addition to being the company's head of accounting. You must be Ruby Rose."

Ruby weakly shook Glynda's hand with her own clammy one and stammered a broken greeting in response.

The secretary's expression remained inscrutable. As soon as their hands fell, she said, "Please follow me. Ozpin has been expecting you," and turned on her heel, striding to the more modest door tucked away at the back of the marbled room the secretary worked in.

Ruby trailed a few steps behind her, mustering the last of her confidence and praying she would breeze through the rest of the encounter without making an utter fool of herself.

Glynda twisted the door handle and held the door open for the jittering teenager.

The first thing Ruby heard – rather than saw since her head was hung low from embarrassment – when she crossed the threshold was a soothing, familiar male voice quip, "It seems that every time we meet, Ruby, you have an unfortunate incident involving coffee."

She laughed and attempted to cover the coffee stain with her arm, mortified that Ozpin still remembered their earlier episode. Ruby glanced up to look her new employer in the eye with a smart retort at the tip of her tongue, but instead of meeting keen browns, Ruby found herself staring into mesmerising ice-blue eyes.

The blood flowing through Ruby's veins froze as the simple _notion_ to speak died. For she became dreadfully aware of herself standing face to face with an expressionless Weiss Schnee. _The _Weiss Schnee – the most critically acclaimed and renown idol-slash-superstar of their generation.

When the idol arched an eyebrow, Ruby unconsciously recoiled in panic. However, her retreat was prevented by Glynda Goodwitch, who stoically stood behind the teenager.

Escape blocked, Ruby could only withdraw into herself as she stayed within the presence of such distinguished figures.

Ozpin, noticing her discomfort, cleared his throat, gathering everyone's attention. "Ruby, why don't you take a seat and show me what you brought?" he suggested, motioning to one of the two black leather seats in front of his desk.

Ruby, only just realising she still had a bag of pastries relatively intact, shambled forward. She stared at the ground, avoiding any and all eye contact with Weiss until she reached the safety of the chair. Butt firmly planted on the soft leather cushion with only the rustling of her clothes breaking the silence, Ruby placed the paperbag on the table and pushed it to Ozpin.

Ozpin curiously sifted through the various pastries Ruby bought and picked one up for closer inspection.

"I, uh, wanted to bring something from this nice place… kinda nearby – well, 'kinda' because it's actually pretty far if you walk – or run – on foot, but I'm sure that if you took a taxi or drove a car or something, it'd be a lot faster, and–"

The man smiled, finding the girl's innocence endearing. Ruby, aware of his change in countenance, halted and asked, "Did I say something–"

Ozpin shook his head. "Thank you for the gesture, Ruby. It wasn't necessary, and yet you went out of your way to please us. That's what I like to see." He peered quickly into the bag to double check. "You were also astute enough purchase three treats. How delightful."

Ruby swivelled around in her chair to look at Weiss and Glynda. "U-uh, I didn't know how many people would be here, and I'm pretty strapped for cash, so this was all I could afford, and I'm really really sorry if it's not to your taste–"

"Nonsense, Ruby Rose," Ozpin berated. When she turned back to face him, he continued, "If they don't wish to consume these pastries, then I would be more than happy to."

Glynda glided to the desk and swiftly extracted a pastry at random from the bag. "I'm afraid I can't allow you to hoard all of these to yourself, Ozpin. You need to watch your blood sugar levels."

Ozpin sighed, glancing at the unmoving superstar. He grabbed the remaining baked treat from the bag and held it out to her. "Care for some, Weiss? Or shall Glynda eat it all?"

Weiss's lips twitched in amusement as she watched Ozpin effortlessly deflect the scowl Glynda shot him. She stepped forward and made to grab the proffered pastry, before swooping in and snatching the first one he had selected from his other hand. "Don't mind if I do."

The Vale Records founder briefly gaped at Weiss's flagrant disregard for seniority, but didn't dwell on it. He detected Ruby calming down as she watched their lighthearted banter, and believed it the perfect opportunity to start their meeting. Moreover, Weiss had actually relaxed for a split second.

Ozpin thought that either Peter's R&R worked wonders, or his plan was already in motion. Both sounded ideal.

Flashing the teenager another comforting smile, he said, "Now, shall we begin?"

Instantly after Ruby eagerly nodded, Ozpin began to give her a lengthy introduction to the industry and company, as well as their terms and conditions when it came to signing new talent.

Try as she might, Ruby was hopelessly lost a minute into the conversation. She saw him gesture to Weiss and speak to the idol as well, but Ruby could only pick out faint words. Her eyes slowly began to glaze over as his liberal use of the industry's terminology grew more profound, and as the minutes ticked by.

Meanwhile, Weiss – who was largely uninvolved with the procedure and hence tuned it out – felt a part of herself sink in dread as a sense of déjà vu struck her. The scenario that ran through her mind wasn't a prediction; Weiss Schnee _knew _what Ozpin was going about to do. After all, this was something she experienced when she was first taken under his wing. Perhaps not _quite_ in the same way, for she was indubitably prompt and infinitely more composed than the girl Ozpin was currently speaking to, but the sentiment remained similar.

Weiss glanced quickly at the pastry in her hand, its lingering warmth having reminded her of its existence.

Not in the same way at all. They were not at all similar to one another, Weiss mulled.

At any rate, the established idol braced herself. By no means was she anticipating Ozpin's arrangement, but she would take decisions made on the chin – as she always did. With hope, her constantly hectic schedule would shed some light on the occupational demands and hazards, and ward Ruby away from pursuing this choice.

That thought alone gave Weiss mild comfort.

"So," she heard Ozpin finish, "Is that alright with you, Ruby?"

Weiss observed out of her periphery the girl jerk at her name, a clear indication that she had zoned out ages ago. The superstar wondered what made her – so evidently oblivious to the inner mechanics of this merciless industry – keen on becoming an idol. Fame? Fortune? Glory? Her lips thinned, quashing the scoff that threatened to seep out.

Anyone who wished to pursue any or all of those things were haplessly ignorance, Weiss bitterly brooded.

Weiss caught Ruby's uncertain yet excited answer, a simple, "Uh, yeah! Sure!" and felt her lithe body stiffen, irked by the sheer _naiveté._

Ozpin clasped his hands together and announced, "Fantastic! Then starting today, you will be following Miss Schnee during work hours to learn from the master herself."

Weiss wordlessly nodded, knowing there was no arguing with the man. Judging from the lack of paperwork, Weiss also came to the conclusion that the girl had already signed her contract.

She quelled whatever sympathy she had for the newbie; there was little compassion in this business.

Simultaneously, as those thoughts flitted through Weiss's mind, Ruby's head drew blanks.

After a few beats, once Ozpin's words registered, the newly inducted idol-in-training's jaw dropped in shock.

"Wha?"

* * *

**AN:** FFTB's not linear in the purest sense for storytelling purposes, hence the date and timestamps. Just putting it out there for anyone who's confused. There will occasionally be events happening simultaneously, though they may occur in separate chapters.

Edited Chapter 2 for consistency's sake in future chapters: 'Port' is now referred to as 'Peter' during narrative. Everything else remains the same; my apologies for the oversight.

Thanks to everyone for being patient; odds are the next chapter won't be quite as delayed. Also, credits to Glant and Tiky for scanning through.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Not-so-Idol After All**

_18 November 2014, Tuesday_

_8:48PM_

Inhale. Exhale. And repeat.

Weiss's sleeveless athletic shirt and pants rustled as she shifted imperceptibly, loosening her sore legs a touch and making minor adjustments to their position.

Her head lowered as she continued to breathe deeply, and her off-centred ponytail brushed lightly against her cheek as she waited for the ticking of a metronome.

One. Two.

One, two, three.

The moment rhythmic techno blasted from their speakers, a smiling Weiss flawlessly executed a series of body waves. On the tail end of her last wave, she used the thrust to transition seamlessly into a semi-crouch; her foremost leg was bent, knee touching the floor for stability, while at the same time preserving her modesty. Lifting her curled right hand – the same one that pretended to hold her microphone – to her mouth, she popped her chest a few times, tuning out the terrible auto-tune of her voice that began to play over the pulsating music. As the drum beat kicked in, she pushed off from the ground and momentarily anchored herself on both feet, before using the remaining impetus to throw herself into a quick, powerful left to right bounce just as the beat grew faster. Then, just as the drums reached their peak, she strutted forward, to where the centre of a stage would be, and thrust a hand into the air the instant the snare hit; an explosive end to the intro.

As it dissipated, Weiss moved her hand near her lips again as she started to lip-synch along to the song. Dance practices always called for lip-synching, since they were focused on conditioning the body to new routines until they were practically second nature. However, appearing in front of an audience was a different story altogether.

While Weiss never sang the heavily altered sections because she was incapable of hitting such notes, she made it a point to sing as much as she could, no matter how exhausted she was, or how much she despised the lyrics. Just because executive decisions meddled with a lot of her song choices and arrangements, didn't mean she hadn't retained a shred of pride and dignity.

She was a _performer,_ and by God was she going to give a legitimate performance.

Her hips instinctively swayed to the tune as she glided and skipped from one side of the established 'stage' to the other, smiling and waving to the imaginary audience beyond the wall of mirrors she stared at. Custom Nike shoes squeaked against the hardwood floor as Weiss spun and kicked in time to the music, landing just as it reached its crescendo.

Breaking into a series of complicated dance manoeuvres, Weiss twisted and undulated to the intense thumping, effortlessly pulling off one seductive move after the next.

The ache in her muscles screamed for her to stop. She had been incessantly trying to perfect this new routine for the past few hours, and hadn't take a single break longer than five minutes. Even then, that was only to rehydrate as and when needed.

Even Ruby could tell from the look of strain on the artiste's face, on top of her faintly quivering sweat-slicked muscles, that Weiss was working herself to the bone.

Disregarding the sore state of her body, Weiss brought the imaginary microphone back to her lips as the choreo-heavy component ended and the chorus looped again for the last time.

Suddenly, in the middle of a pirouette – the finale of this song – she felt searing pain run through her calf muscle and radiate along her leg and foot. The idol winced, but didn't faltered; determined to finish the number properly, she balanced herself by using the leg that wasn't cramped to sweep down and take over while the stitched one slid to the side for a quick stretch, ending the spin with an unconventional, yet still stunning, pose.

The idol stayed like that, chest heaving, until the last note faded out. After which, Weiss carefully adjusted her posture, taking care not to put too much weight on the pulled leg. She heard the sound of soft yet quick claps from behind her, and stared into the mirror; Weiss saw in the reflection that a wide-eyed Ruby, who had been observing from a seat in the corner all this while, had stood up to applaud her.

Weiss mustered a tired infinitesimal smile that seemed to snap Ruby out of her awestruck reverie. Immediately, something clicked in her head and the newbie turned around to grab the baby blue towel draped over her seat, as well as an unopened bottle of water. She then dashed up to the singer and passed her the towel first.

Accepting it with a muted 'thanks', Weiss closed her eyes and wiped away the beads of perspiration that collected on her forehead with a quiet sigh. Reaching around to swab the back of her neck, Weiss glanced out of her periphery and asked, "What time is it?"

Ruby started, still not used to being able to physically speak and interaction with the singer. "Uh," she began, glancing down at her watch. "Five minutes to nine," Ruby said, looking mildly surprised. "Wow, I didn't realise how much time flew by."

Weiss sighed, hanging the towel around her neck. She took the bottle Ruby handed her and twisted the cap open with ease, before drinking deeply. "You grow used to it. Time only ever seems to move at a snail's pace when you're in transit," she remarked, slowly moving towards her bag tossed beside the newbie's seat. With how cautiously she walked, Ruby almost didn't notice the slight limp in the singer's step.

Ruby jerked forward, about to help Weiss. However, something made her stop, and she instead trailed unsurely behind the idol. An inkling of doubt and anxiety seeped into Ruby's mind. Did the songstress even want her hovering around like this? Was she pushing it too far? Being too enthusiastic, perhaps? Should she dial it down? Play it cool? But what if she went too far? Made it seem as if she didn't care; that she was apathetic and aloof to the situation? Then wouldn't she just look ungrateful? But she wasn't ungrateful!

Caught up in the barrage of thoughts, Ruby failed to notice Weiss had gathered her things and was looking perplexed at her. "Is there a problem?" Weiss asked.

"Huh?" Ruby reeled back in surprise. "Ah, no, no! Just thinking to myself is all. Ahaha," she rambled nervously.

Weiss wordlessly stared at her for a few beats, almost analysing the way Ruby's eyes darted anxiously and her feet shuffled awkwardly. "I see."

As the singer made to leave the dance studio, Ruby cried, "Well, I mean, I guess–"

The idol-in-training stiffened and cut herself off with a gulp when Weiss turned back to look at her.

Weiss waited for a few beats, but received absolutely no reply other than the terrified expression Ruby gave her. Weiss's eyebrows knitted and she shot her an expectant – if slightly impatient – look. "Well? If you have something to say, spit it out."

"Your leg…" Ruby muttered, pointing at the aforementioned limb.

The songstress shouldered her bag. "Is fine."

Ruby gulped. "R-right."

Weiss quirked an eyebrow. "Anything else?"

"Ah." Ruby shyly rubbed the back of her neck. "Uh, are you… not going to eat anything?" she asked, before becoming aware a split second later how the query could have been interpreted as intrusive. She stared bug-eyed at Weiss and took a step back, frantically waving her hands in front of herself. "I mean, not to be a busybody – if you had dinner plans somewhere else, I completely understand! It's just… meals are catered, aren't they? Or you at least have people to buy some for you. So… why did you skip dinner?"

Over the course of her talking, Ruby's head fell more and more until she was staring at the floor. "If you don't mind me asking, that is," she finished as a mumble.

Weiss shook her head, whipping out phone from her bag upon hearing its vibrations. "I just don't feel like eating," she curtly replied. She paid no heed to Ruby's gasp as she flicked through her smartphone and nonchalantly continued, "It happens. You either find that you don't have the time or the appetite to eat."

"That's not right!" Ruby exclaimed indignantly, grabbing Weiss's full attention. Ruby found herself shrinking back, moderately cowed under the idol's intense ice-blue gaze. "I mean… my parents told me and my sister never to skip any meals. It's not healthy."

She winced when Weiss's impassive expression didn't change.

Only after a few beats did Weiss finally remark, "Your family sounds tight-knit."

Ruby laughed nervously, feeling as if she had just dodged a bullet. "We are. They're all naturally kind-hearted," she said as her grey eyes softened a touch, "but they always went out of their way to make me feel more at home."

Weiss, being perceptive as she was, detected faint of melancholy in Ruby's tone. While she wouldn't go as far to state she knew the reason, she understood it could potentially be a soft spot for the rookie, and tactfully refrained from saying anymore. Instead, the singer asked, "Speaking of dinner and home – shouldn't you had left by now? You weren't obliged to wait for me."

This, Weiss recognised, was a trend that the rookie upheld.

For the past week, Ruby had been faithfully following the idol as she was whisked from one location to another for an assortment of meetings, practices and interviews. Not once did the rookie complain, even as she was technically functioning as an assistant and runner for the superstar during the rare times she wasn't assigned any vigorous vocal and dance training in her schedule.

Moreover, Ruby feared none of the repercussions and demands the career stipulated. Rather, she voluntarily put herself through more training and exposure than necessary – in every aspect. She willingly requested for and sat through lectures hosted by either Peter or Ozpin about the rules and restrictions an idol had, both in public and private life. In addition, she personally went through every page in her contract, clarifying any enquiries with Weiss or the singer's larger-than-life manager. She accepted the array of rules regardless of their perceived 'fairness'. The ban on love and relationships, she laughed off. Regulations dictating that she would have to work as and when the schedule commands, she welcomed.

All in the search for success and stardom.

Truly, Ruby proved herself to be immensely ambitious and dedicated to the job; as much as Weiss hated to admit it, she could now see her younger, hopeful self in the fresh recruit.

A small part of Weiss inexplicably burned at the thought.

"Of course I had to wait!" Ruby feverishly cried, eyes sparkling with excitement. "It's only right that I clock as much time as you do, especially since you're my mentor. Besides, it's not every day someone like _me_ gets the chance to watch a _real_ idol in action, let alone the best in the business." She stopped and considered her words. "Well, I mean I've been doing it for the past week and all… but still! Experience is experience!"

"A real idol, huh," Weiss muttered, gaze moving to stare into the mirror at the reflection of herself.

"Hm?" Ruby hummed, innocently oblivious.

"It's nothing," Weiss replied, side-eyeing the trainee. "We should take our leave now."

Hearing that, Ruby instantly sprung into action.

Weiss quickly glanced at her phone again and frowned, as Ruby darted around for her things. "It seems I have a new engagement to attend to," the artiste muttered loud enough for Ruby to hear.

After Ruby was done, she shambled up to the artiste with great hesitancy in her steps. "Uhm, Miss Schnee?"

Said girl canted her head.

Ruby scuffled her feet. "I heard that you had another meeting tomorrow morning… And I was wondering…"

Weiss marvelled the girl's resourcefulness and persistency. She had that in spades, if nothing else. "You're free to join us, if you so choose. Just make sure it doesn't clash with your training schedule."

Ruby furiously nodded. "I already triple checked with Ozpin!" she animatedly exclaimed.

The idol nodded and flicked through the contacts in her phone. "Do you need a ride home?" she politely offered while tapping out a text message to her driver.

Shouldering her red backpack, Ruby shook her head. "I don't want to impose," she stated. "You said you have an appointment, and dropping me off would probably make you late."

Weiss's eyebrows knitted as she took into account the time. Finding truth in the rookie's words, she pursed her lips. "Alright."

Ruby grinned and made her way to the door. "Don't worry about me," she chirped, lightly thumping herself on the chest. "I've had to deal with tons of night shifts before. I'll see you tomorrow!"

With that, Ruby bounded out of the dance studio, leaving Weiss alone in the vast space. She stared down at her phone and breathed a heavy sigh.

Carefully, so as to not jar her injured muscle, the singer trudged to the lift. After a speedy ride down to the ground floor, Weiss slowly shuffled out of the building's hidden rear entrance and into the unassuming black van parked directly out back.

She gracefully plopped onto the plush faux-leather seat and reclined her head, closing her eyes. The door slid shut automatically, and without having to say a word, the car drove off in the direction of her house.

"This astonishes me," she heard Peter say from a few seats behind her.

Having predicted that he would follow her as per his managerial duties, and spotting him in the backseat the moment she stepped foot into the vehicle, Weiss felt no surprise. Instead, she continued to lay there motionless.

"You typically don't leave the office until an ungodly hour," he noted, unconcerned by Weiss's unresponsiveness, since he was used to her taciturnity. "Why, we recently even purchased an irrefutably soft divan for you to slumber upon when you stay overnight – _not_ that you ever _use_ it, young lady," he gently admonished.

"So?" he sternly asked, "What sparked this drastic alteration, my dear?"

When he received no response, Peter thinned his lips. About to try again, he was interrupted by his text tone. The manager glanced down at his phone, ready to ignore whoever messaged him – that is, until he saw that it was something from Weiss.

He opened the message posthaste. Giving it a quick scan through, Peter concealed his shock and sneaked a peek at his unmoving charge. "Would you like me to–"

"No, Port," Weiss finally replied, albeit wearily. "This is between me and her." Her head turned slightly so she could glance at her manager out of the corner of her eye. "Thank you, though," she murmured.

Before Peter could say anything else, the vehicle slowed to a halt. Looking out of the tinted window revealed that they had arrived at the artiste's apartment complex.

Weiss unceremoniously slid open the car door, allowing a gust of chilly winter air into the van. As she left, she heard her manager say, with concern in his voice, "Take the utmost care, Weiss. And please, if you need anything, don't hesitate to call. I shall be here in a jiffy should you require my aid."

A small smile was the only reply he received as the door closed.

With furrowed brows, Peter Port watched her leave up the short flight of stairs and disappear into the manned lobby. Then, he shifted his attention to the penthouse suite on the highest level – where Weiss lived. A minute or two passed before he observed warm, yellow lights flood the windows, indicating Weiss was safely in her flat.

Seeing that brought her manager slight comfort, though the worry bubbling in his chest failed to dissipate. Releasing his breath as a loud exhale, Peter leaned into his seat and told the driver to send him home. As the car drove off, he wondered if Weiss would be okay.

It wasn't every day the idol's mother personally contacted her and requested to chat, after all.

* * *

_18 November 2014, Tuesday_

_10:34PM_

The bathroom door creaked open, releasing a surge of steam as the young songstress padded out of her warm shower and into her bedroom. The contrast between temperature as she exited her washroom was minimal, thanks to her unit's amazing automated thermostat system; Peter had it installed a year ago when he discovered she frequently forgot to turn her warmer on, since she hardly ever returned to her large, barren house.

Weiss sighed, walking to her sizeable wardrobe with a barely noticeable limp, the hot bath she soaked in having helped relax her cramped muscle. As she pulled the doors open, she scanned the large array of clothes she owned for something presentable, before deciding otherwise. The white Egyptian cotton bathrobe she always wore to sleep when at home was fine enough as is. This was supposed to be a quick, casual affair with her mother. There was no need to be formal.

With a shake of the head, the artiste closed its doors and languidly turned on her heel to her desk, where her laptop laid. On the way there, she grabbed her handcrafted wooden hairbrush off her dresser's tabletop, and set to combing her hair.

As she straightened her lush locks and rid them of tangles, Weiss moved to sit on her comfortable leather executive chair. Then, using her free hand, the idol opened and started up her Macbook Pro. Her dexterous long fingers keyed in the necessary password, and before long, Weiss found herself staring at the default background while the different icons on her dock bobbed up and down, automatically launching. A quick glance at the clock in the topmost right-hand corner showed it was 10:43PM.

Seven minutes until her mother was slated to log onto Skype.

Weiss expected her mother to be punctual, as the woman always was. Despite her long history in the fashion world – first as a model, and then as a fashion designer after she married Weiss's father – her mother despised being 'fashionably late'. Weiss remembered being told something about the concept of timeliness being drilled into mother at a young age, and how it would thus be passed onto her, but the memory was vague and fleeting, as most involving her family usually were.

The rhythmic, leisurely brushing of her own mane, coupled with the tranquil silence in the room, soothed the idol, and evoked hazy impressions of her parents from way back when.

She recalled that as a young child, her parents had always been distant, leaving her alone with the butlers and maids. Both had been workaholics, and still were; her father, Wilbur Schnee, became the CEO and chairman of their family's business – The Schnee Drilling Company – shortly after her birth, successfully managing to cement its place as America's leading oil corporation over the years. Her mother, Blanca Schnee, was slightly less occupied by her work during the initial few years of Weiss's life, though that could have been attributed to the break she took between retiring from modelling and starting her haute couture label. Regardless of reason, Weiss had fond memories of the way her mother gently combed her hair every night for the first couple of years of her life.

Her eyes glazed over with wistfulness. They were one of the few moments Weiss could recall her parents ever feeling close to her.

The jingle of an incoming Skype call broke the still.

Weiss closed her eyes and exhaled steadily, bracing herself for the impending conversation. One hand finished the final brush through her silky smooth tresses and tenderly placed the comb aside, while the other tapped on the trackpad, hitting the green button to accept the call.

"Hello, mother," Weiss greeted amiably.

Their connection was stable, allowing Weiss to see her mother clearly in the Skype window.

The older Schnee had aged gracefully over her years, retaining much of the beauty she had been famed for. Her hair, while in a tight yet fashionable bun, still kept its snow white lustre. And her soft countenance, though wrinkled by the passing of time as evident by the crinkled eyes, continued to possess sprightly youth, due in part to the twinkle in her bright green orbs.

Blanca gently smiled. "Salve, darling. It's been a while since I've seen you, Weiss. How have you been?"

"Fine. And yourself?"

"Italy has been treating your father and me well," she said, voice as delicate and soothing as Weiss recalled. "At any rate, I'm sorry this call has to take place so late for you, Weiss. My schedule has been ridiculously tight – even now, we only have about fifteen minutes before I have to rush off for a hideously early breakfast with a client."

Weiss shook her head. "It's no problem, mother. I understand."

Blanca thinned her lips at the terse reply. "You look fabulous, my dear," she said, trying to initiate more of a fluid conversation. "A little weary, perhaps, but that doesn't detract from the fact that you look every bit our daughter. Have you been taking care of yourself?"

"As well as I can," Weiss answered.

"Excellent, excellent," Blanca said while nodding her head.

An uncomfortable pause.

Blanca looked at her daughter and added, "I see you're taking wonderful care of your hair as well. What have you been doing with it?"

Weiss unthinkingly touched the tips of her long mane. "Other than the usual shampoo and conditioner, I've simply been using the comb you sent me."

Her mother's eyes seemed to light up. "The gift I mailed eons ago? I'm glad it's serving you well then, darling. I had it handcrafted by an expert in China; only the best for us Schnees." Blanca smiled and cleared her throat. "You should come to Milan some time, Weiss. It's a beautiful place."

A shadow of a smile graced Weiss's lips. "I did, mother. Just a few months ago, as part of my world tour."

"Oh?" Blanca said in surprise. "Why didn't you tell me? We could have had lunch together."

"I contacted your assistant and requested to speak to you a few weeks before I was due to fly in, actually. However, I was informed that you were busy and would get back to me when your schedule cleared up," Weiss replied. She forced a tiny, awkward smile. "But I suppose it never did."

Her mother scoffed. "That man… Honestly, he should have realised you were my daughter the moment you said something." She shook her head. "I can always make room for you, darling, especially when we have so much catching up to do. I would have _loved _to hear about your career in person; it sounds as if it's continued to grow more successful since the last time we got together, if that were even possible."

Her eyes shone in delight. "In fact, I just so happened to see a beautiful poster of you yesterday while we were shopping in Quadrilatero d'Oro, Weiss. I wanted to tell you that I'm just so incredibly proud of you."

Weiss's throat bobbed slightly. "... Thank you, mother," she softly said.

"Oh, you have nothing to thank me for, darling," Blanca cooed. "This resulted from all your effort, after all. I'm just glad for you, that you've carved your own place in this world." The mature woman sighed and cupped one cheek with her hand. "I remember when you were a child, you always seemed so lost. I even told you that you weren't fit to be an idol, with how soft-hearted you were with your father and I. I was so afraid that this industry would eat you alive." Her mother beamed. "But I see that I was completely wrong now. You're living your dream, and I cannot be happier for you, Weiss."

The singer winced imperceptibly. Her, living her dream? It couldn't be any farther from the truth.

All she had ever wanted was to find that connection between them, since her parents had always been so busy. She had thought as an adolescent, after receiving the offer, that it was her golden opportunity onto becoming a blip on her parents' radars; to finally be part of their hectic lives. And it seemed as if it had become a success.

But now, after numerous years in the industry, Weiss wondered, _'At what cost?'_

Whether or not her career would brought them closer over the years, Weiss knew not. Granted, they were speaking now, and her mother _finally_ noticed her, yet… They never spent anytime together after Weiss signed to the company either, did they?

So what was the difference?

Blanca thought nothing of her daughter's sudden quietness, chalking it up to Weiss being the reticent girl she always had been, mixed with a dash of bashfulness after the admittedly rare compliments her mother showered her with.

However, in Weiss's mind – unbeknownst to Blanca – a war waged on. She pondered over whether or not to voice the thought she so desperately wished to express; should she test the water and see if she'd receive some semblance of support from her mother?

Had her mother finally come around to understanding her?

Shuffling uneasily in her seat, the artiste decided there was no time like the present. "Actually," Weiss started cautiously, "I was thinking… about retirement."

The response Weiss received was not one she hoped for.

"That's preposterous!" she lightly chided. "Why on Earth would you quit now, darling?" Her mother frowned – one that looked kinder than hers, since Weiss inherited her sharper, more severe features from her father. "What spurred this on?"

Weiss's gazed had dropped to stare at the keyboard. "It struck me that with how busy my schedule always has been, I never have the time to visit you or father…"

After a short lull, Blanca laughed daintily. "Oh, Weiss. Just because your father and I, regrettably, cannot play a bigger role in your life, doesn't mean you should stop. Please, don't let us get in the way. In fact, I _insist_. It would devastate us if we knew we were the cause of your early retirement."

"You've fought so hard and went through so much change for this. Don't let all your efforts go to waste, Weiss," she lectured lightly. "I'm sure your father and I will be able to fit in soon. Until then, don't falter darling."

Regardless of the disappointment that flooded her system, Weiss maintained her serene facade. With a short, awkward chuckle, Weiss replied, "Of course. You're absolutely right, mother. I don't know what I was thinking. Thank you for your support."

"Anything for you, dear," Blanca tenderly said, before her expression changed into mild astonishment. "Heavens, time flies by so quickly." Her forehead creased. "I'm afraid I have to go now, Weiss," she said apologetically. "I'll call you another day, darling."

Not letting her daughter get another word in, the fashion designer blew a quick kiss at her webcam before switching it off, ending the Skype session.

Left alone once again as whatever transient warmth she felt vanished, Weiss allowed her expression to fall as her posture slumped imperceptibly. A quick glance at her laptop's analog clock showed it was 11:05PM.

While she had set her alarm to ring at six the next morning so she could prepare for tomorrow's early meeting, Weiss thought it too early to fall asleep then. Slowly getting up from her seat, the songstress carefully shut the laptop and padded out of her spacious room, into the one next door.

Without any hesitation, Weiss fluidly sat herself in front of the baby grand piano, positioned her slender fingers over the white keys, and began to play.

* * *

_19 November 2014, Wednesday_

_7:52AM_

"How much sleep did you get last night, Weiss?" a worried Peter Port asked as he and his charged slowly walked down the long, empty, narrow hallway of Beacon Record's 35th floor towards the enormous meeting room at the end.

Weiss had barely noticeable bags under her eyes, though her gait was as confident and cool as ever. "Enough, Port," she murmured, voice slightly hoarse from disuse in the morning.

Her manager frowned. "That's not a number, child," he lightly admonished.

"Consider it an estimate," Weiss quipped, trying to appease the man. Before Peter could get the opportunity to rebuke her again, she change the topic. "I've never heard of this director before."

Peter's frown deepened. He was aware of her unsubtle attempt at steering the conversation elsewhere. Nevertheless, the manager, knowing he wouldn't get a proper answer out of Weiss anyway even if he pressed the issue, replied, "Neither have I. Though you've surely heard of the Arc name, at the very least. He's the latest young chap following the family's long legacy."

Weiss pursed her lips. "Wasn't his father supposed to be directing the shoot, though?"

Peter nodded and released a tired sigh. "From what I heard, he was hospitalised. But for what reason, I cannot say. Tabloid news is far from trustworthy, as you know." He ran a heavy hand through his greying hair. "At any rate, our new director comes highly recommended."

Despite the reassurance, Weiss still looked unconvinced. "The Arcs are certainly big household names in the movie industry," she conceded as she reached the door at the end of the hall. Pushing it open, she finished, "But who on earth is Jaune Arc?"

"That… would be me."

Stepping into the meeting room, Peter and Weiss were met with a young blonde standing nervously next to one of the many leather chairs tucked into the sprawling table.

Seeing the blonde wordlessly shuffle nervously in place, crinkling his slightly oversized navy suit as he stared starstruck at an impassive Weiss, Peter took pity on the anxious man. "Why don't we take a seat and get started, hm?" the manager said as he moved to heartily clap the scrawny blonde on the arm.

Broken out of his reverie, Jaune gulped and nodded, awkwardly cleared his throat as he clumsily pulled out a chair and sat down.

Not needing any prompt, Weiss gracefully glided to the chair opposite Jaune and took a seat, right as Peter looped around the table and flopped into the chair next to her.

Before Peter could make any brief introductions, the door flew open as a disheveled Ruby staggered into the room. As Ruby and Jaune's eyes met, both their jaws fell open as their fingers pointed at each other. "You!"

Peter recovered quickly and smiled. "Well, I suppose some of us are already acquainted. Take a seat Ruby, please."

Said girl stiffly sat next to the manager, so that he was now flanked by both females. _'What a coincidence,' _Ruby thought as she stared at the equally stunned blonde. _'I mean, we've already settled the bill for Yang's coat, but I didn't expect to run into him again in a city this big.'_

Noting everyone was either still reeling from surprise, or too aloof, Peter decided to take initiative. "For formality's sake, I am Peter Port, Weiss's manager. And this," he introduced, gesturing to Weiss, "is Weiss Schnee." Motioning to Ruby, he finished, "And finally, Ruby Rose, our latest recruit who will be sitting in for our meeting today. I hope that's alright with you, Mister Arc."

"Ah yeah, totally cool," Jaune replied. "Uh, nice you meet you all. My name's Jaune Arc, and I'll be directing the music video."

Despite the nerve-racking anxiety, Jaune managed to subdue his stuttering to a bare minimum as he immediately delved into his pitch, giving them an outline of his concept for the music video.

Eyebrows knitted, Peter rested his elbow on the table and placed his chin against his propped, closed fist, paying full attention to the blonde's idea. Less blatant was Weiss, who maintained her professional demeanour with her inscrutable expression and rigid posture, though it was clear she was also listening to Jaune's plans.

As Jaune continued to ramble, he belatedly realised he had forgotten to display part of his presentation, something he had worked tirelessly on for the past few days after his father assigned him this task. Bending down, he lifted a heavy, black briefcase onto the table and fumbled with the locks for a bit before opening the case. Pulling out a few folders, Jaune set to work splaying drawings that conveyed his vision across the desk.

They were crude illustrations, and it was far from the best or most professional pitch Peter received in the years he had been Weiss's manager, but he saw potential. It seemed his charge did too, as Weiss actively began to participate in the discussion, pointing out potential problems, in addition to throwing in ideas she wanted used; details like prop and costume designs were traded, constantly being reiterated as they went back and forth.

Ruby, meanwhile, sat there and silently watched the trio work in admiration.

A little over an hour passed before Peter's phone began to vibrate in his suit pocket. As Jaune and Weiss continued to discuss the music video shoot, the manager dug his phone out and checked the caller ID.

Ozpin.

Holding a finger up to signal for a pause, Peter leaned back into his seat and answered the call. "Hello? What is it, Ozpin? I'm currently in a meeting–"

"_With Jaune, I know,"_ Ozpin wearily responded. _"And I'm afraid you'll have to end it there. I've just been informed that the board has requested for the music video to feature one of Luminos Studio's bigger names."_

"What? Now? Who do they think they are, interfering _this _late, and without _any _notice?" Peter argued.

"_They are our superiors, and they insist, Peter,"_ Ozpin replied. _"They say it'll be good publicity, considering our upcoming acquisition." _Ozpin sighed. _"This was almost a unanimous decision."_

Peter huffed. "Absolutely preposterous, these greedy, small-minded–"

"_That's enough, Peter,"_ Ozpin said with a sigh. _"Listen, I have to go. Pass on my sincerest apologies."_

With that, Ozpin hung up. The manager grumbled under his breath and surly pocketed his phone. "On behalf of Ozpin, I must apologise. The rest of this meeting must be postponed till a later date." He turned to Weiss with remorseful eyes. "Apparently, they'd like to feature another artiste in your music video."

Weiss squeezed her eyes shut. She was losing more control over the creative process each day Ozpin was no longer at the helm, and while she didn't fault the man, the songstress was _frustrated_.

Jaune felt awkward, watching this interaction, but was soon distracted – and mortified – by the sonorous voice playing from his own phone. Ruby giggled, recognising the ringtone as an excerpt of one of Weiss's older songs, back when they were predominantly power ballads.

The blonde felt the ends of his ears burn as a fiery blush coloured his cheeks. Avoiding eye contact, he reached into his pocket and he ferreted out his phone, hastily answering the call. "Hello?"

A few beats, before Jaune's blue eyes widened and he vigorously nodded. "O-Of course." He glanced up at Peter as he said into the receiver, "Yes, yes, I've heard. Uhm, I'll wait for your call then. R-right, thank you."

After hanging up, he scratched his jaw. "That was–"

Peter stretched and cut him off with a loud exhale. "I can guess. No need to fret, young man." Getting to his feet, the manager extended his hand out for a short, firm shake, which Jaune hurriedly reciprocated. "It was a pleasure to meet you. Again, I'm deeply sorry that circumstances had to cut this short, but we'll definitely be seeing you once the next meeting has been arranged."

The blonde, sensing the atmosphere, understood what the gesture meant and thanked them quickly for their time, promising to incorporate their ideas to the best of his ability as he packed his scattered notes. Then, Jaune fled the scene as calmly and elegantly as he could.

Once he left, Peter turned to Ruby with a small smile. "It seemed you had some unfinished business with Mister Arc earlier," he remarked. "Perhaps you should give chase?"

While Ruby had no doubts that Peter told her that out of genuine care and kindness, she was also fully aware that she too was subtly being made to leave. Tentatively agreeing with the man, Ruby left, though not without casting a few backward glances at the unmoved artiste on the way out.

Upon exiting the room, Ruby spotted Jaune mere feet down the hall, shuffling towards the lift. She ran up next to the man and kept pace. "Hey Jaune. Didn't expect to see you here."

Jaune rubbed the back of his neck with a free hand. "Hah, yeah. Me neither. New recruit, huh? No wonder you were in such a rush at the dry cleaner's."

Ruby winced, remembering how she had darted off with Yang's coat, leaving Jaune with a sizable bill and only a simple text message later in the day as an apology. "Sorry about that."

Jaune gave her a small grin. "It's no problem, I totally understand."

Feeling better about herself, Ruby returned a smile of her own. "So, director? Must be crazy, having such a famous dad."

The blonde looked taken aback. "Oh, I never told you my last name, did I?"

"Nope."

Jaune sighed. "Yeah, it's… a lot to live up to. This is actually my first serious, big job."

Ruby looked up at the ceiling as they slowly down corridor. "I think I know the feeling," she replied empathetically. "But hey," she said with a slightly more chipper tone, "this just means we have more reason to work hard, right?"

Jaune's lips twitched. "I guess so."

Conversation stopped for a bit as they reached the end of the hallway, which conveniently enough, already had an elevator open on their floor. They entered in unison and pressed the button for the first floor.

As the lift jerked to life and proceeded to descent, Jaune joked, "Birds of a feather really do flock together, huh?"

They shared a quick laugh.

"Hey," Ruby said, looking at the blonde. "Why don't we make a promise to each?"

Confusion shone in Jaune's eyes. "Huh?"

"We'll both work hard to see our dreams come true. I mean, since we're new, there's that kinship, y'know? There'll always be someone we can confide in; someone who'll completely sympathise. The more support, the merrier, right?" Ruby stretched a hand out to the blonde. "Whaddya say?"

Jaune looked down at her hand for a few moments before his slowly gripped hers in a steady hold. "Let's do this."

Ruby beamed.

As the doors opened, they dropped the handshake and cheerily strolled out together, feeling a little of the weight on their shoulders dissipate.

"I'll see you around then, Ruby!" Jaune said, waving to her as he left the building.

"Don't be a stranger!" she cried back.

Once Jaune was out of sight, Ruby pursed her lips together. Her schedule was clear for the next few hours, and she had planned to spend it with her idol mentor. However, that option seemed to be crossed out.

Suddenly, Ruby stumbled forward with a yelp and almost tipped over as a weight slammed into her back and clung to her neck.

"Ruby!" Yang exclaimed happily.

"Yang?" Ruby asked in dismay. "What are you doing here?"

"What? I can't check in on my baby sister during one of my breaks?" the blonde replied, ruffling Ruby's hair.

"Yang!" Ruby yelled, pushing her shamelessly grinning sister away with a pout. The trainee patted her locks down to try and look more presentable. "Honestly…" she grumbled.

"So? Think you'll be free for lunch?" her fashionably dress older sister queried as she tucked her hands into her coat's pockets.

Ruby's gaze flickered to the lift. "I don't know…"

* * *

_19 November 2014, Wednesday_

_9:07AM_

"Are you sure you're alright, my dear?" Peter worriedly asked as he walked alongside his charge.

Weiss sighed. "Even if I weren't, what can I do, Port?"

Peter pursed his lips, unable to think of an answer. "Well… Just take care of yourself, Weiss. I'm afraid I need to return to my office for a few hours later to sort out whatever hogwash they have disposed unto us." As he said this, they arrived at the row of elevators. The manager pressed the bottom button to call for a lift going down.

Weiss sighed as one soon arrived and entered it with Peter. "Are you sure it's fine to delay that, then?"

"Hm?" the manager hummed as he pressed the key for the lobby.

Weiss rested herself against the cool metal wall. "The paperwork."

Peter snorted. "Those old farts can wait. We need to get you some breakfast, first and foremost!"

The artiste's eyebrows knitted. "I've had breakfast."

"A slice of bread and half a fruit is nowhere near proper sustenance for one such as yourself, with what your demanding schedule," rebuked Peter. "We're going out for a decent meal, and that's that. I've already called your driver over."

The lift dinged, signalling they reached the ground floor. When the doors slid open, both walked in tandem to spot Ruby comfortably speaking to a gorgeous blonde woman.

Weiss stared inscrutably at the newbie and the way she casually interacted with the somewhat familiar stranger. "Could you go ahead without me?" she addressed Peter without glancing at him. "I'll catch up."

The manager looked at her curiously, but acquiesced. "I'll be waiting by the back entrance, then."

When Peter departed, Weiss approached the two. "Miss Rose."

She saw Ruby's face fell for a fraction of a second before she collected herself. "Miss Schnee! I was just–"

The blonde's eyes warily darted from the stern woman to her sister. Sliding over to Ruby, she slung an arm around her shoulder – much to Ruby's horror – and flashed Weiss a winning grin. "Just making sure her _older sister's_ all fine and dandy!" she enthused, taking extra care to stress on the words 'older sister'. "Some practice for when you idols deal with your fans, being all friendly and stuff, m'right?"

Making a show of checking her watch, Yang feigned surprise. "Wow, time sure flies," she said. "Looks like I need to jet. Guess I'll catch ya later, Rubes." The blonde then pulled her sister into a crushing bear hug. Leaning down to her ear, she added in an undertone, "She seems so much nicer on TV."

"Yang!" she hissed.

Yang giggled as she pulled away. "Ta-ta!" And with that, she left the two ladies standing in the hallway, an awkward sort of distance between them.

It was Weiss who broke the silence first.

"You're close," she mused, looking in the direction of Yang's retreat.

Ruby immediately perked up at this. "Y-yeah! She's great. Has always been there for me, though she gets on my nerves sometimes. But that's family, right?" she ended with an uneasy laugh.

Weiss stared at her with an unreadable expression for a few tense beats. "I suppose." The songstress broke eye contact and scanned a stiff Ruby. "You often spend time with them? Your family, that is."

"Uh, as much as I can," Ruby replied. "Yang and I moved out here for our careers, but we visit our parents every once in awhile when Yang's free."

Weiss felt a pang in her heart as a flood of embitterment threatened to engulf her being. "I see. It must have been hard, leaving them."

Ruby excitedly nodded. "Oh yeah, it definitely was. But this city's been pretty great! Especially since I'm finally, well…" Ruby gestured to the lobby, "here."

The artiste's muscles grew taut. "... Indeed. It's quite a shame then," Weiss said, her eyes flickering back to meet Ruby's, "that you'll have to give most of that up."

Ruby's eyes widened. Weiss could feel the girl's shocked stare permeating her skin, but steeled her own gaze against those pools of grey. "What… what are you saying? I… I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, Miss Schnee." Her tone was careful, but the songstress could hear the undercurrent of fear in her words.

"I only speak the truth. Unfortunately, you'll have no time for them, provided you actually wish to be an successful idol," Weiss stated. "One's fame correlates to one's schedule. The more famous someone is, the more hectic their schedule will be, and vice versa. If you truly do aspire to be reputable, you need the dedication to see it through."

Her flinty bearing only made the already timid Ruby feel all the more smaller as Weiss added, "The life of an idol is _not _a bed of roses; one never catches a break once you're in the spotlight – not from your producers, your trainers, your fans, nor the media. I was under the impression that you were aware of this when you entered this field, or at least had grasped that concept over the past week of observation." Weiss thinned her lips. "Though I'm slightly disappointed, I can't say that I'm surprised," she finished, folding her arms matter-of-factly.

Ruby felt as if someone was slowly, gradually, twisting a knife in her gut.

Ice-blue eyes scrutinised the rookie. "At any rate, if you ever find your resolve wavering–"

"It's not!" Ruby adamantly cried before averting her gaze, embarrassed at her outburst. "I haven't changed my mind at all," she muttered quietly, though just loud enough for Weiss to hear.

The artiste's chest squeezed uneasily for reasons beyond her understanding, though it didn't stop her from replying positively: "That's good–"

"I'm… I'm not finished," Ruby boldly interjected, finding sudden strength within herself to stand a little straighter. "I haven't changed my mind, but that doesn't mean I'm going toshut them out. Without them, I wouldn't have had the strength to even _make_ it here – I owe them so much. I mean, sure, we're family and we don't exactly owe-_owe_ anything to each other… but I really wanna make them proud. I won't leave them like that; not after all they've done for me. B-besides, I'll make time! And I just…" the newbie trailed off, having said her due. "I just…" she muttered before falling quiet, her posture back into its nervous, hunched state.

The artiste exhaled slowly, punctuating the strained silence between them. "I understand. Please do me, yourself, and your family a favour, then."

Weiss Schnee strode towards her, the resounding clack of her heels punctuating her words. Ruby felt her confidence falter as the distance between them younger woman scrambled to think of something to say to make up for her blunder, but nothing plausible crossed her mind as the songstress stopped just so, to tower over the girl.

The idol's ice-blue eyes grew a shade darker, now appearing ominous enough to strike a lance of fear through Ruby's heart. "Quit now while you're ahead," she humourlessly said. Her tone was hush – barely above a whisper – yet to Ruby, it was hideously loud as it reverberated in her ears. "Leave this industry, and never set foot in it again."

Ruby felt herself grow cold.

"Wha… wh-what?" she stammered, reeling from shock. "No… no! Miss Schnee, I'm sorry, I–"

"Don't bother," Weiss interjected gravely. She had encountered the newbie's type before; they never made it far enough or whole enough to attain their pipe dreams. Her fist clenched hard enough for the arm to begin shaking infinitesimally.

She would end it here and now – swiftly and decisively. Like pulling off a plaster; it was kinder if she did it in one fell swoop, rather than allow others to slowly over the course of the trainee's career pluck at it.

Ruby gulped, trying desperately to quell the rising panic in her chest. It was as if the weight she felt had been lost what seemed to be days ago – but in reality had only been minutes – returned to burden her body multiple-folds. "I… don't understand…" she began, but the other woman had already began walking in the opposite direction.

"Let me make it infinitely clear for you, then," Weiss replied, not bothering to stop or turn around. The cacophony of her footsteps and Ruby's hammering heartbeat still would not drown out the idol's next words:

"You, Ruby Rose, are not fit to be an idol."

* * *

**AN:** I couldn't for the life of me think of a suitable (read: intentionally out-of-character) song for Weiss to dance to. So I just looped a random idol song for inspiration at the start. By no means is the song _exactly _what Weiss performed… but I'd imagine it's something along those lines. For anyone curious, watch?v=WzvwlrLkQIs

Weiss and Ruby never seem to get off on the right foot, do they? Polar opposites who are equally bullheaded; it's only natural they don't see eye-to-eye.

As always, thank you to everyone who reads, reviews, follows and favourites FFTB. This project probably has the most time and effort put in, so it honestly means a lot that people enjoy it.

Credits to Tiky (and Glant) for helping. [And shoutout to DezoPenguin for spotting some mistakes!]

Preview:

_The door creaked open, drawing everybody's attention to the apprehensive girl that walked in. "Uh, delivery?" Ruby said, lifting a handful of paper bags with the Starbucks emblem into view._

_Weiss noticed, out of the corner of her eye, her manager stand. "Ah, Ruby! Thank you for responding on such short notice, and for being so prompt as well. Set them down near Weiss, if you would."  
_

(lookatthisfancybreakline)

_A mellow voice answered: "Hello? Who is this?"_

_Yang was equal parts relieved and excited to hear the photographer's voice, albeit slightly altered over the phone. "Hi, it's Yang. Is this Blake Belladonna?" she asked, to clarify._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Let's Talk Business**

_20 November 2014, Thursday_

_3:06PM_

"_Don't you think you were too harsh on her? Once upon a time, you were as hopeful as she, my dear."_

Weiss sighed, staring blankly at the whiteboard upfront as her mind looped for the nth time her manager's words from yesterday afternoon. The current major shareholder in Beacon Records and one of the executive producers of Luminos Studio, Roman Torchwick, stood next to it and blathered on while motioning to the almost illegible words and images he probably had some poor, underpaid lackey scribble on the board.

'_It's not as if I did it out of spite,'_ Weiss thought, her fingers playing mindlessly with the pen in hand. _'I genuinely think someone as soft as her is better off with other endeavours.' _She frowned. _'And it's never bothered me before, being honest. Yet…'_

Unwanted images flitted through the idol's mind; those of the newbie's fearful, heartbroken expression moments before Weiss passed her in the lobby and delivered the final blow. The line of sight of her ice-blue eyes drifted down to trace the table's fibres as an unfamiliar emotion bubbled in her chest.

Forcibly shaking away those thoughts, and the negative feelings that accompanied them, her eyes moved to appraise those present at the meeting. Across the table from her sat an uncomfortable Jaune Arc, whose shoulders were hunched inwards slightly, indicating his unease. Weiss noted that although they all had been here for the better part of an hour, Jaune, despite being the director, had never once thrown in his input; or rather, hadn't been able to, with Roman constantly cutting him off or speaking over him. She pitied the blonde for having to deal with such a difficult man his first time doing a major shoot, but the feeling didn't linger for long. Weiss honestly did believe that Jaune should develop more of a spine; she knew from experience Roman was far from the only haughty, abrasive, holier-than-thou person in the industry, and this would help determine whether or not Jaune was capable – or could grow capable – of handling their type and thus flourish in the business.

A seat away apart from the tense blonde were two members of Luminos Studio's heavily acclaimed boy band, The Cardinals. Weiss racked her brain for their names. She vaguely recalled the scrawny one with a garish lime green mohawk being introduced as Russel, and his leaner, more 'generic boy band'-looking light brunette friend as Dove.

Weiss wondered if that was his stage persona, or if his parents actually were that quirky; in any case, despite appearances, Weiss knew enough of the man that she could safely say he was far from the tranquil, peace-bringing bird he was named after.

Directly ahead of them were the remaining two members; sat next to her manager – who wasn't facing anybody – was a man with handsome, chiseled features, which provided a contrast to his long, slicked-back blue hair. Sky was his name, if Weiss remembered right.

And finally, next to him was the most condescending, baselessly arrogant man Weiss ever had the displeasure of meeting: Cardin Winchester.

Their first encounter was long before The Cardinals were conceived and Cardin was made their leader. Weiss had been a relatively successful idol by that point, while Cardin was a new entry under another label that later flopped and was absorbed into the then-obscure, now ridiculously successful, Luminos Studio.

They certainly got off to the wrong foot when – after being left alone in a room together to 'get along' – Cardin's contentious and chauvinistic nature proved itself too irksome for even the professional Weiss Schnee to handle.

That day, Cardin left the Beacon Records headquarters with a bruised pride and substantially injured family jewels.

Judging from the glares he shot Weiss when he entered the meeting room, the artiste thought it wasn't too far a stretch to assume Cardin still held a grudge.

'_What a child.'_

Thinking he wasn't worth the time, Weiss directed her attention to the male commanding the meeting.

Of course, their band was helmed by someone who could only feed their pompousness; the bright orange-haired man in a white suit giving the presentation.

'_That suit itself probably employed the use of dozens of child labourers,'_ Weiss snarked internally.

Weiss found it difficult to fathom how someone as sleazy and unscrupulous as Roman Torchwick amassed so much power over the past four years. Granted, the man was a relatively skilled wordsmith gifted with an absurd amount of charisma – that even had taken Weiss in for a few days – but his personality was bogged down by his hubris.

Then again, Weiss pondered over of how easy it was to butter up the wealthy, egotistical investors in this city, especially if you helped lined their pockets; at that thought, Roman's ever-growing enterprise suddenly seemed reasonable, if not terribly suspicious.

However, all of his paperwork checked out as legitimate, and so Roman was free to do as he pleased.

Not that Weiss cared. She still thought he was an absolute scumbag, albeit a well-educated one.

"–Moreover, if we consider how large the fan base for both parties either already are, or are anticipated to become with respect to The Cardinals, I believe it would be beneficial for us if they collaborate on this piece."

Peter Port kept his arms folded. "But this is my charge's song. Throwing in additional vocals into the mix is unnecessary. The audience would see right through this gimmick as the promotional stunt it is; if anything, I predict this move would prove more detrimental for us than anything else."

Roman smirked. "Which is why this music video won't be for Miss Schnee's new single. Rather, it's a new song created by the best in the industry for our companies' joint Christmas venture. Originally crafted for The Cardinals in mind, we decided it was in both our best interests if _the_ Weiss Schnee was featured as well."

Peter's expression twisted in incredulity. "What?"

"This will move units twice as quickly–"

Peter scowled. "You're defaulting on our original agreement and putting Weiss's sales at jeopardy–"

"–and has already been approved by our sponsors." Roman flashed them a plastic smile. "I'm sure Miss Schnee is more than capable of selling units to her devoted fan base even without the aid of a music video. We can just include one of her recent concert recordings as a special bonus. That more than makes up for it, don't you think?" he said with rhetoric. "After which, if you're so inclined, we can film an MV and package it with the _next_ single as incentive. Hype to her upcoming album, if you will."

Fists hidden behind his arms, Peter clenched them tightly to try and alleviate some of the rage he felt.

Weiss gently touched her manager on the arm, silently cautioning him to maintain his composure. She returned the insincere smile. "Of course."

Roman clapped his hands together. "Fantastic. Now then–"

The door creaked open, drawing everybody's attention to the apprehensive girl that walked in. "Uh, delivery?" Ruby said, lifting a handful of paper bags with the Starbucks emblem into view.

Weiss noticed, out of the corner of her eye, her manager abruptly stand. "Ah, Ruby! Thank you for responding on such short notice, and for being so prompt as well. Set them down near Weiss, if you would."

The rookie looked hesitant, but she did as she was told.

"Who is this, and why is she interrupting our meeting?" Roman asked tersely.

Peter motioned to her, expression noticeably more jovial. "Ruby Rose, our latest trainee and budding young talent, if I could be so bold," he complimented, much to Ruby's embarrassment. "As for why, I requested for the sweet child to take some time off her break to purchase myself and Weiss something light to eat; unfortunately, because we were informed by your assistant that this meeting started at noon, we skipped lunch. I didn't think it feasible that said meeting would have been delayed by two and a half hours, Mister Torchwick, so beg pardon her intrusion."

Weiss reviewed the past few hours she spent with her manager, before remembering he had been fiddling with his phone shortly before Roman and The Cardinals' arrival. _'He must have been messaging her then, the sneaky man.'_

Peter caught the look Weiss shot him and winked.

Roman was unfazed by the jab at their unpunctuality. "Please accept my sincerest apologies for our tardiness," he diplomatically said, "there were unforeseen circumstances that delayed our arrival. It happens often in our line of business, doesn't it?"

"Oh, yes, without a doubt. We don't fault you in the slightest," Peter replied with an equally polite tone. "However, you'll have to excuse us; Weiss hasn't had anything to eat since morning – the poor dear's been so busy – so I must insist that she have something now. Of course, I've asked Ruby to purchase more than enough for everybody here, so please feel free to nibble on something as we continue." He purposefully paused. "If that's alright with you, Mister Torchwick."

All eyes on him, Roman smiled. "It's absolutely no problem. Boys?"

Cardin sneered. "We'll pass on that processed shit; we're worth a lot more than that."

His band members muttered agreements.

"B-but food is food," Ruby gingerly replied with a nervous smile.

Dove snorted, brushing the hair out of his eyes. "That stuff you call 'food' is calorie-ladened _junk_."

"Then again," Sky noted, leaning forward to meet Ruby's eyes with his own half-lidded ones to catch her attention. His eyes drifted down to appraise her figure, which made the unsettled Ruby shrink away. "I suppose _you're_ not one to care about that, are you?" he snidely remarked.

Russel cackled as he brutishly and repeatedly slammed his fist onto the table.

Ruby felt herself flush, the sudden onslaught of heat making her feel more uncomfortable than she already was.

Weiss gritted her teeth as the meek rookie struggled to reply. For some inexplicable reason, witnessing the newbie's deer in headlights expression, as a direct result of The Cardinals' unnecessarily derisive comment, flooded the artiste's system with rage_._ Before an indignant Peter could fire a response, Weiss snapped. "That's enough. By insulting her and this food, you're indirectly slighting me." Her cold, sharp ice-blue eyes scanned their now disquieted expressions before landing on Roman's impassive face. "Was that your intent?"

A few beats passed before Roman broke the tense silence with his reply. "No, Miss Schnee. Discrediting you and your efforts was not their intention, I'm sure. I apologise for my charges' crude behaviour, and will see to their punishment. This was not how they were taught to act."

Only when Weiss saw the quartet's expressions twist at the word 'punishment' was she satisfied, and nodded to show her acceptance of the apology. Meanwhile, her manager watched the songstress, a glint of pride in his eyes.

"Uh," Ruby awkwardly and softly began, shuffling her feet, "I should…" instead of finishing her sentence, she simultaneously gestured and backpedalled to the door.

"It's still your break, no?" Peter interjected. "Why don't you sit in for this meeting as well? The more first-hand experience you can glean, the better, yes?" Before Ruby could object, Peter beckoned for her with a wave of his hand. "Please take a seat next to Weiss, Ruby."

The newbie gulped uneasily, feeling everybody's eyes on her, but listened to the command as Peter sat back down. Gaze affixed to the table to prevent any unwanted eye contact, Ruby carefully slid into the chair, ducking down just enough that majority of her was covered by the paper bags she brought.

Weiss frowned, feeling the anxiety ooze off of Ruby in nearly tangible waves. Oddly enough, her blatant unease was making the idol feel uncomfortable as well. In an attempt to calm the rookie, with hopes that it'll alleviate the strange feeling in her chest, Weiss casually reached over and rooted through the nearest bag to find two piping hot drinks. The songstress extracted them from their paper confinement one by one, passing the first to her manager and keeping the other for herself. Provided Peter had given Ruby decent instructions, Weiss expected both drinks to be the same: black.

While she typically enjoyed a well-brewed cappuccino, the songstress always opted for black during working hours, and her manager knew this. Taking a long sip of the bitter beverage – her tongue long numbed to the scalding heat after years of countless steaming mugs of coffee – Weiss cast a sidelong glance at Ruby, tuning out Roman's prattling.

The stiff as a board girl was practically staring holes into the tabletop.

Weiss sighed quietly around the rim of her drink, the unwelcome foreign sensation gnawing at her innards yet again. Grabbing another bag, Weiss rummaged through and pulled out whatever pastry she found and promptly slid it across the table, positioning it under the newbie's face.

As it moved into view, Ruby glanced up at the idol, who had retracted her arm and was now seemingly paying full attention to Roman as she leisurely drank her coffee.

"Uh, thanks," Ruby muttered, playing with the tart.

Weiss nodded. "Their opinions mean nothing," she tersely murmured out of the corner of her mouth.

The rookie did a double take. "H-huh? But they're famo–"

"Which means nothing," she replied in a hushed whisper. "Appearances aren't everything."

"But yesterday you said–"

Weiss frowned, irked that she was being compared to _them_; it was true that not long ago, she had been as callous as the narcissistic boy band. That thought certainly didn't soothe her, but she inwardly justified that her comments were for an entirely different, more rational and_ impartial_ purpose. She had not been rude for the sake of it. "I'm aware of what I said–"

Roman cleared his throat. "Miss Schnee?" he asked in a saccharinely sweet tone. "I'm sorry for interrupting your riveting conversation, but we must go back to the task at hand."

Peter placed his elbows on the table and linked his hands together, resting his nose on them. "I believe that we've come to an agreement already though, have we not?" he replied in Weiss's stead. "Weiss and The Cardinals will collaborate on the aforementioned special Christmas piece, as well as its music video, which will be slated for release on Christmas itself. Furthermore, my charge's next single's extra content will be reworked."

He leaned back and exhaled heavily, staring into Roman's eyes. "My qualm is that this was very poorly planned and executed; we only have a little more than a month. Assuming Mister Arc and his crew require at least a few days – if not up to weeks, reasonably – to edit the MV, on top of having to record, shoot and mass produce the physical copies… and not considering both our artistes' schedules…" Peter frowned in disapproval. "We're cutting it _extremely_ close, Mister Torchwick."

Roman capped the marker in his hand and put it down, before resting both hands on the tabletop. "Indeed we are, Mister Port. However, there's no reward without risk," he addressed lightly. "I have confidence in this project's ability to succeed, considering the wonderful talent we have aboard." Roman airily motioned to the stack of notes in front of Peter. "If you'll refer to our handout, you'll see that with regards to schedules – because this is such an important undertaking – the board is willing to help clear both parties' immediate itineraries, so that we may begin and end filming immediately. This gives Mister Arc and our people more time to polish the final product."

The man straightened and tucked his hands behind his back. "We'll be in touch about the specifics, such as time and location, in addition to promotional events. That said, since my charges have already completed recording, we're simply waiting to splice Miss Schnee in."

His forehead creased and he pressed his lips together, feigning at serious thought. "Hmm, might I ask that she wrap that up by tomorrow, so that we could start shooting… say, Saturday? To expedite the process."

Before an outraged Peter could interrupt, Roman soothed, "Of course, Miss Schnee's involvement will be rather simple; since she's 'featured', albeit rather prominently, we just need her to be on set and respond to cues. No practice beforehand necessary, Mister Port."

"Oh," he suddenly added, glancing apologetically at the only blonde in the room, as if only remembering his presence and position now, "if this is all alright with you time-wise, Mister Arc."

Put on the spot, Jaune had no choice but to stutter an uncertain 'yes'.

Roman smiled civilly. "Excellent," he declared with finality. "Now, are there any questions?"

Jaune timidly lifted his arm. "Uh… about the details of the shoot…"

Roman laughed. "Silly me, it must have slipped my mind; we'll contact you soon about the details. Because this _is _a board decision, they have many ideas they've proposed that are to be implemented. Furthermore, since Miss Schnee has yet to receive information about the song, she's unlikely to have any input as of now." He turned to face Weiss and Peter. "I'll have the lyrics sheet sent to you posthaste, after which, you may feel free to contact Mister Arc for further arrangements."

"I assume there are no more inquires, then?" Roman asked.

The room was silent.

With a quick glance at the quartet, Roman silently ordered them to rise. As they stood, their manager finished, "If not, we shall be taking our leave. It was a pleasure being able to speak to all of you, and I eagerly await for our cooperation in the near future."

Not another word was said as the five funnelled out of the room.

"The _nerve_ of that appalling man…" Peter grumbled, grumpily getting to his feet as he fumbled for his phone the moment the door shut. "Now I have to reschedule _everything_, because Lord knows he and his 'people' aren't anywhere _near_ competent enough to fix this long-term," he groused, storming out of the room. "Bloody blundering _buffoons_. Who do they think they are, meddling with protocols…"

With his departure, silence once again descended. Soon, Jaune felt the charged atmosphere become all too suffocating. Stumbling to his feet – which resulted in his chair cluttering and wheeling back, drawing the attention of both Weiss and Ruby – Jaune hastily muttered, "Uh, I guess I should go. T-thank you for your time." After a hasty, sloppy bow, Jaune scurried out of the room, leaving an unreadable Weiss and nervous Ruby alone.

The newbie was sweating buckets, and her gaze constantly flickered to the door, clear signs of her anxiety, though her posture was impeccably rigid. _'Should I leave? Or would that be rude? Maybe I should stay until she goes, so I can clear up these bags?' _she frantically thought, terrified of making any faux pas. She mentally cursed Jaune for leaving her behind.

Then, she reviewed the past few minutes. The idol – the same person who had only yesterday shot down her aspirations – had defended her, despite not having any obligations to do so. Just what on Earth–

"Miss Rose."

Said girl gave a startled squeak. "Yes?"

"... About yesterday."

The rookie's heart sunk and her stomach churned.

Weiss looked reluctant to continue speaking, though she forged onwards. "I… would like to apologise."

Ruby gulped and looked down at her lap, where her hands balled up the fabric of her clothes. "Oh."

"While I meant what I said, upon reflection, perhaps I could have phrased it less harshly."

Ruby shook her head slowly, understanding what the artiste was saying. "No." The songstress hadn't been the only one to have mulled over the previous day's events. "It's fine," she softly replied.

'Fine' was not a word Weiss expected the rookie to use. Weiss turned her head to stare, perplexed, at a newbie, who glanced up at her with a small, shaky smile. "With all due respect Miss Schnee, I think you're wrong. And I'll prove it to you," she gently declared, though only Ruby was aware of how her heart threatened to beat out of her chest.

Weiss inscrutably eyed Ruby for a new moments before tiny bitter smile ghosted over the artiste's lips. Even after trying to dissuade the teen, she was still too stubborn to listen. Weiss wondered if Ruby was hopelessly optimistic, or hopelessly stupid. Possibly both? "You don't listen well, do you?"

The rookie blinked. "Eh?"

Breathing a low resigned sigh, Weiss's eyes slid shut and she took a sip of coffee. She had tried her best; if the trainee wished to delve into the dirty trade, even after all she had witnessed, Weiss could not and would not stop her. Everyone had a choice to make, in her mind, and Ruby made hers.

"Uhm, Miss Schnee?" Ruby asked, a clear tremor in her voice.

Said songstress got to her feet, coffee still in hand as she leisurely strolled out of the room. "... Do as you will. I wish you all the best," she replied, albeit rather cooly.

When her response clicked in the trainee's mind, Ruby felt a weight ease off her chest and the rapid drumming slow. Ruby watched the idol disappear behind the elaborate door, mulling over Weiss's words.

Her response was… relatively detached, but this was a step in the right direction.

… Wasn't it?

* * *

_20 November 2014, Thursday_

_3:39PM_

In another high-rise building merely a short drive away from Beacon Records, a bored Yang flapped her lips together as she reclined in the plush leather seat, leisurely resting her legs on her manager's tidy desktop. One quick glance at the clock hung up on the wall opposite showed she had been waiting for a good ten minutes.

He had called her to his office less than an hour ago, urgently requesting for her to come in despite it being her day off, but now was nowhere to be found.

The blonde sighed, mindlessly twirling a lock of her hair around her finger as she twisted her feet a little, lazily inspecting her new black buckle boots. _'That man… Where does he keep disappearing to?'_

A faint 'ding' piqued Yang's attention; looking out of her periphery in the noise's direction, the model noticed the laptop haphazardly placed near the edge of the table had suddenly lit up. Closer inspection revealed that the mail icon was blinking.

Deciding that messing with his email would provide suitable entertainment, Yang reached out and clicked the trackpad with a manicured finger, bringing up the most recently received email.

She immediately spotted that the fairly lengthy mail had been sent from her manager himself.

Yang frowned, manoeuvring her legs to plant both feet squarely on the carpeted ground as she hunched forward to glare daggers at the screen. "You have time to email yourself with all this information, _knowing _that I'll be at your desk, but you can't just _call _me?" she grumbled. "Some logic."

Another notification popped up on the side, indicating another mail from her manager to… himself. Opening it unveiled a succinct message:

"Don't question your manager."

The blonde huffed, irked by how he effortlessly predicted her thoughts. Tabbing back to the first email, Yang briskly scanned through it. Her brows knitted as she absorbed the content, flicking her fingers on the trackpad a few times to re-read the message. As she did so, the air around her lightened as a sly grin slowly began to stretch across her face.

The window blipped again, signifying that she received another mail. Yang cycled to it.

"You're welcome," it read.

She crossed her arms and leaned back, reeling slightly from disbelief at her manager's actions. "Unbelievable…" she breathed, dropping her head back against the seat as her eyes slid shut.

Yang hadn't thought that she made her interest in the photographer she recently met obvious, but her manager seemed to have noticed. The model attributed it to them having worked so closely for the past few years, as opposed to her unsubtle mannerisms when they had met and discussed about the photos they and the magazine publishers received.

Granted, on hindsight, the way she wholeheartedly praised the images and commended Blake's flair for the arts was somewhat out-of-character for the model, and thus could have been interpreted differently by her manager. However, Yang remembered that he too had been impressed by the photos taken in the last magazine shoot.

So clearly, she wasn't _completely _biased; just a smidgen, perhaps. That shouldn't have been enough to tip the man off as to her fascination with Blake. Right?

Right.

Nevertheless, it appeared as if he was cutting her a break – or dumping more work onto her, depending on how she looked at it. Yang's lilac eyes fluttered open, and she tabbed back to the original email.

The first concise paragraph was a justification for his absence – not that Yang particularly cared, since she trusted her manager was doing what needed to be done. She skimmed over it. The second – which comprised as the main body of text – was a section discussing and describing a job position he had just opened; what it entailed, its pay, the fringe benefits, etcetera. While it hadn't piqued the model's interest at first, being that it appeared irrelevant unless from a managerial perspective, a brisk scan of the mail's entirety proved otherwise.

In fact, the most significant bit of his email only came at the end.

"I'm interested in hiring her for your personal photo book shoot, and I think you are too. I've obtained her number from the photography agency she temps for. Give her a call."

And below that was an innocuous string of numbers.

Her manager hadn't even needed to say a name for the model to connect the dots.

Yang stared at it for all of two seconds before she whipped out her phone and keyed in the digits; her manager's landline laid next to his laptop, but she paid it no mind. _'Who even uses those anymore?'_ Yang thought as she pressed dial.

Lifting the handheld to her ear, the blonde only had to wait a few rings before the call went through.

A mellow voice answered: _"Hello? Who is this?"_

Yang was equal parts relieved and excited to hear the photographer's voice, albeit slightly altered over the phone. "Hi, it's Yang. Is this Blake Belladonna?" she asked, to clarify.

"_Oh, good afternoon Miss Yang. Yes, this is she. Is something the matter?"_

Yang sucked her teeth. "I thought I told you to drop the formality?"

"_Sorry,"_ was the immediate, terse reply.

"Ah, it's fine," the model said, shrugging aside the issue. "Listen, I'll cut to the chase; how would you like to be my photographer?"

The receiver crackled for a moment as all that came from Blake's end was the sound of steady breathing, before she responded: _"... Beg pardon?"_

"You. Me. Work buddies!" Yang exclaimed cheerily. "I have a photo book being conceptualised right this moment, and my manager and I want someone fresh and talented to help shoot it. You fit the bill perfectly!"

"_... I'm flattered. However, I believe I've mentioned that I only accept part-time photography assignments as and when needed, correct? And I don't need a job at this particular moment."_

"I know, but hear me out." Yang used her free hand to scroll up to the email's main chunk. "We're willing to offer you a pretty enticing deal, if you ask me."

A beat passed.

"Go on, ask," the blonde prompted with a cheeky grin.

She heard a soft sigh. _"What does your offer entail?"_

"Why, I'm glad you asked!" she chirped. "Firstly, the shoot is a little less than a week from now. We'll be leaving for Guam on the 26th, to be precise, until the 30th, which is when we'll catch a morning flight back to LA. Of course, the trip is all expense paid," she prattled easily.

"_You mean you didn't already have a photographer for your shoot?"_

"We're always willing to change things around for those with aptitude!" she said smoothly. "Besides, it's not like our other photographer won't be tagging along; a bigger crew is a better crew, right?" She smiled, resting her arms on the desk. "Newer, younger opinions and approaches are what add spice to these books – and you, Blake Belladonna, are as new as they come."

"_... And what of the pay and hours?" _Blake inquired, still sounding dubious.

The blonde glanced at the laptop screen. "Would ten be enough? Your–"

"_Wait, I'm sorry,"_ Blake interjected, _"did you say ten? Thousand?"_

"Yep," Yang casually replied. "Is that a problem?"

"_No, not in the slightest,"_ she heard the photographer hastily answer. _"And the working hours?"_

Yang hummed. "Those'll be slightly sporadic, since my photo book requires pictures from different locations at different times of the day. But I promise that you'll find enough time to relax and enjoy the local atmosphere." The model mulled over it for a second before continuing, "Also, I can guarantee that you'll be able to write, if that's any consolation."

"_You… certainly treat your employees well," _Blake remarked.

"Gotta work hard and play hard, yeah?" she started confidently. "And play's only a letter away from 'pay'... or something," Yang ended weakly. "Anyway, we just like rewarding our staff for their efforts; it encourages loyalty and continued results."

"_This is another temporary assignment though, isn't it? Just for those four days?"_

"It is, although we'd be inclined to try hiring you again – maybe even permanently – if you do a good job," Yang responded. She leaned back into her seat. "So? Whaddya say?"

Yang could practically hear the gears in Blake's head whirring as the photographer fell hush; in Yang's opinion, this was a fantastic deal – who on Earth would say no after hearing her pitch?

"_... Could I get back to you on this, Yang?"_

The model grimaced. Apparently Blake would. Nevertheless, it wasn't an outright rejection, so Yang stayed optimistic. "Sure!" she said. "Just call me whenever." The blonde paused for a beat to think before correcting herself, "Actually, if you could keep it to working hours–"

She heard Blake chuckle. _"No unreasonable hours, I understand."_

Yang grinned toothily. "Thanks. I hope to hear from you soon!"

They exchanged brief goodbyes before the model ended the call.

Yang sighed, her head dropping heavily back against the chair's headrest. She sluggishly raised her phone to eye level and tapped the screen with expert precision, sending a text to her manager.

His response was swift; Yang hadn't even time to switch away from their conversation before he replied. "Was the response favourable?" he had messaged.

"She said she'd think about it. How's that?" Yang fired back.

The model didn't need to wait long for his retort. "And here I thought your charm would kick in even through a phone call."

Yang frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?" she complained under her breath. Eyeing her phone's interface, she noted that it was five minutes past four. Assuming she was no longer needed, since he didn't request for anything else, the blonde promptly stood up and stretched, ready to head home. Shutting the laptop down, the blonde pocketed her phone and strolled out of her manager's office. On the way out, she flicked the light switch off while simultaneously grabbing her coat off the door's hangar.

After saying her farewells to the jolly receptionists and burly though sweet security guards as she left the building, Yang strode out onto the busy streets. Her padded brown leather bomber jacket provided fantastic insulation against the cold, though Yang could still feel a slight chill every time the city's labyrinth of skyscrapers caused a strong, concentrated gust of wind to sweep through the area. Not that she cared; her fiery personality and active lifestyle when young had trained her to handle varying temperatures exceptionally well as she frolicked outside, regardless of season. Moreover, winters in Los Angeles were never particularly cold anyway.

Thus, with these factors in play, Yang couldn't help but think it'd be a shame if she didn't take the opportunity to take the scenic route home, since they lived relatively nearby – in her opinion, anyway. A quick check of the phone showed that she had plenty of time to kill before dinner. Foregoing the usual taxi ride home, the model began trekking in the direction of her and Ruby's shared flat, soaking in the sights, sounds and smells of the city.

Even after three years of staying here – two of which were on her lonesome – Yang was still enraptured and awestricken by the littlest of things in the bustling metropolis. One being the way the receding sunlight danced off glass panels lining each tall edifice, creating a warm, faint glow that washed the streets with resplendent orange; a warmth that contrasted brilliantly with the increasingly cool, crisp breeze that gently brushed her exposed face and evoked the most nameless and vaguest of emotions in the pit of her chest.

The constant lively avenues and hectic, expeditious lifestyle weren't for many people, but Yang absolutely adored it. Thrived off of it, even. It was a city that could keep up with her exuberance, and _rewarded_ her in such breathtaking ways for staying; what wasn't there to love?

Turning a corner, the model's thoughts started to wander to more immediate affairs. Her sister popped into mind.

Yesterday, Yang had returned home late to find Ruby sat, hunched solemnly, at the dining room table, reeking of negativity; while it hadn't been evident on her face, Yang knew her sister well enough that the subtle change in demeanour – the small strained infrequent smiles, forced speech and slump in her shoulders – spoke volumes of the despondence Ruby must have felt.

Yang didn't ask why or what happened to the girl, who had been so bouncy that morning, aware that it'd only cause the surprisingly delicate teen to withdraw into herself more. But the model, admittedly, had been worried sick watching the normally ravenous Ruby pick slowly at her dinner.

The blonde was no longer one to make bold unfound accusations, having mellowed out slightly over the years, but she had a sinking feeling she knew who caused her sister's internal struggle – a certain famous someone who Yang couldn't take any action against without severe repercussions. Though, even with their statuses, the blonde wouldn't have mind accepting the public relations nightmare if it meant satisfying her innate sisterly rage. However, that was overpowered by her desire to avoid disappointing Ruby, who Yang knew disliked conflict.

She only hoped that today went better for her little sister. Ruby had to end their text conversation earlier – slightly before the blonde's manager contacted her – because she was personally asked to run errands for Weiss's manager; it was only safe to assume Ruby might bump into her senior idol.

Deciding it would be a good idea to check on Ruby, Yang whipped out her phone and sent her a quick text message. "Are you okay? And will you be home early for dinner?"

Moments later, her phone vibrated as Ruby's cryptic reply appeared. "Things are getting better, and yep!" Following the sentence was a series of emoticons Yang recognised as those frequently spammed by Nora.

"Guess she's trying her best," Yang muttered to herself with a gentle, concerned smile. Her fingers tapped out another message: "Want me to wait for you? Had to go down to the office because manager was dumb."

"Lol! Go home first! I still have stuff to do!" was the immediate response.

Yang exhaled, watching her breath fog with half-lidded eyes as she stuffed her phone back in her jeans. A car whizzed by, decked out with tons of flashy lights and upgrades, the sound of its beefy engine revving violently as it blew past the stoplight and weaved through the intimidating Los Angeles traffic towards the now no doubt jammed main roads. Shoving her hands into her jacket's pockets, the blonde hastened her already naturally brisk steps as the streetlights flickered on. "What should we get to eat," she mused, playing with the key in her leather jacket; they were for her motorcycle, Bumblebee, which unfortunately had to be sent for repairs after Yang pushed the engine too hard over the weekend while racing at the Leguna Seca track.

Crossing the invisible threshold into their neighbourhood, Yang muttered, "Maybe we can order takeout again from that Chinese place Ruby found…"

* * *

_20 November 2014, Thursday_

_3:54PM_

Blake sighed, pulling her phone away from her ear. She saved Yang's contact number, then placed the device back down on her table. The light from her laptop was the only thing that illuminated her dark room. Amber eyes stared blankly at the blinking cursor on the word document she had opened in the morning, for what she wished to think would be her magnum opus: an epic tragedy, revolving around the concept of two souls fighting for bloody dominance within a man's fragile body. "Non Compos Mentis" was its working title.

So far, there had been zero progress made. She had reached the dreaded state of 'writer's block', and Blake sensed all too familiar anger and frustration fester in her heart. Her hand clenched into a tight fist and slammed itself onto her rickety table, shaking the structure and sending some of her coffee sloshing out of its mug onto the already stained material, where it barely missed her laptop.

The photographer gritted her teeth and roughly scratched the back of her head, tousling her hair in irritation. Reaching over to grab the giant mug of coffee's handle, Blake lifted it to her lips and only managed a single sip of the hot, bitter beverage before she heard her front door fly open with a loud, resounding 'thud'.

Blake sighed, reluctantly setting her mug down onto the table in anticipation of what was to come next. Shortly after which, the door to her room followed her front door's example. The photographer turned around in her swivel chair with an impassive expression to stare at the mischievous-looking short-haired blonde who had just burst unannounced into her flat. His hand deftly flicked the switch affixed next to him, flooding the room with artificial light.

The photographer's eyes instinctively squinted as they adjusted to the sudden brightness, barely making out the form of the intruder as he kicked the door close with ease and half-danced his way across the small space to stand in front of Blake.

"What's up?" the male greeted.

Blake stared stonily at the man.

Sun Wukong; a fellow orphan she and Adam had met three years into their stay, when they were eight and thirteen respectively. Sun had only been a year younger than Blake, but he lived up to his name. Despite the tragedy that occurred which landed him in the orphanage, he was a bright, sprightly boy who made fast friends with the aloof Blake and austere Adam.

However, this outgoing and vibrant personality also functioned as a double-edged sword.

Blake could still vividly remember how Sun was absolutely adored by prospective adopters, and had gotten snatched up within five months of being orphaned. She and Adam had been heartbroken by his departure, especially when the young child had confided in them late one night about how he didn't want to leave, but knew it for the best. A proper family could have taken better care of Sun than the orphanage did.

It turned out that a seven-year-old, going on eight, Sun hadn't thought that the case. A couple of months later, his foster parents returned with the boy in tow, claiming that they couldn't handle him. Sun came back a little rounder and with a few new bruises, but otherwise, he remained largely unchanged; he still loved climbing trees, and perched himself on his favourite sturdy branch as he snacked on a banana pilfered from the orphanage kitchen every mid-afternoon.

This cycle continued countless of times. Potential parents were always captivated by the dashing and rambunctious lad, and – in spite of fair warning about his wild attitude – adopted the child, only to send him back months or even a year later. The older duo had watched as Sun bounced from one foster home to the next, though none ever dampened his spirit. It seemed that every time he returned, Sun only grew more rugged and animated with age. And every time the young child came back, he would, without fail, instantly click with Blake and Adam.

Without realising it, seven years had flown by in a blink of an eye since Sun's initial arrival, and many things had changed. The photographer recalled that she, then fifteen, had been hard at work revising for her SATs in her dimly lit room. It had been storming rather heavily that day, providing a gloomy, dreary atmosphere the girl had only though befitting for herself. Her best friend and older brother figure, Adam, had moved out of the orphanage two years before, and while he dropped by as frequently as time would permit, Blake thought their relationship no longer the same. No longer quite as tight. Moreover, Sun had also left shortly before Adam did, having been taken in by yet another well-to-do family; while she and Adam had thought Sun would return – as he always did – within a handful of months, the unruly blonde never came back.

And so Blake, at that point, had been by her lonesome for awhile. She had the lovely caretaker and her fellow orphans, whom she adored, but it hadn't been quite the same.

She remembered the empty void that had begun to fill her then, and how the unreasonable-yet-overwhelming anxiety and fear of abandonment would have completely consumed her, had it not been for the lean male who opened her tiny room's door open with a thunderous slam.

The teenage Blake had spun in place, feeling her heart palpitate vigorously at the sudden noise, but slowly relaxed at seeing the person's familiar features highlighted by her candle's wavering flame. "Did you miss me?" he had asked.

She could never forget how her eyes welled up with tears, and how she had launched herself into the male's arms as he muttered: "I'm home."

Twenty-one-year-old Blake exhaled as her eyes drifted shut, the memory battering her with a torrent of emotions. A smile threatened to bloom across the photographer's face, but she restrained it. Instead, Blake's fingers moved to tiredly rub her nose bridge. "I thought you weren't supposed to be back for a few more days?"

"Ouch, you didn't miss me? That's cold Blake." The blonde pouted, curling into himself as he rubbed his arms. "And to think I booked an earlier flight than the rest of my troupe just for you."

His words broke the little control she had, and her lips stretched naturally into a smile. "Missing you would imply that you were ever gone," she said, echoing the words of her younger self. "So no, I didn't miss you."

Sun's eyes widened imperceptibly in surprise, recognising the statement from long ago. He too smiled softly. "I'm home."

"Welcome back," Blake whispered. She peered behind the blonde and queried, "No luggage?"

He laughed, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. "I overslept, so my leader made check-in easier for me by offering to bring my stuff back with them in three days."

The photographer rolled her eyes. "Typical."

"Hey, I have some clothes in Adam's closet," Sun replied, pointing his thumb behind, where Adam's room laid across the small flat's hallway. "And if it isn't enough, I'll just borrow some of his. He won't mind."

Blake hummed, raking her eyes along his form. She noted how Sun's physique, even under multiple layers of clothes, showed clear evidence that the blonde had bulked up even more; a result of his group's intensive dance performances, no doubt.

"You like?" the male asked, wiggling his eyebrows as he flexed his muscles.

Blake snorted and smirked. "No," she answered with brutal honesty. "But I'm sure Adam appreciates it."

Sun grinned shamelessly, though the photographer caught the faint traces of pink that tinted his cheeks.

"Alright lover boy," Blake said, waving him away. "Go take a shower and get changed. I'm sure those clothes are at least a day old."

The dancer's eyebrows knitted, and he pulled his maroon sweater to his nose, getting a good whiff of his garb. "They're not that bad," Sun commented, though he began to backpedal out of the room.

"Just because you have no one you need to impress here, doesn't mean you should slack off on basic hygiene," the photographer lectured lightly.

"Yeah yeah," Sun mouthed, using his free hand to mimic yapping as the other opened the door. Slipping out through the small gap, the dancer left as swiftly as he entered.

Blake swung her seat back to face her laptop, which had gone idle. Tapping a few keys, the screen came alive, leaving Blake to stare at her manuscript. Breathing a sharp, exasperated exhale, she swiped the document onto another space in favour of the one hidden behind it.

It was the still incomplete skeleton for a new romance novel she had fabricated.

Blake aspired to be a serious author famed for their thought-provoking works. To all intents and purposes, she was on her way towards that goal.

However, the closet romantic in her spewed purple prose and sweet nothings on a regular basis; her muse fed off the mindless, trashy drama and heated passionate that existed only in her cheesy, wistful, teenage dreams. The only way to rid herself of the pervasive thoughts was to pen them down and craft a legitimate tale out of their scraps.

Which was how she found herself under the pseudonym 'Blair Nightshade', a relatively reputable authoress for young adult novels featuring homosexuals as the protagonists. Sun, who had secretly been one of her muses way back when, had stumbled upon her work while he was helping her move out of the orphanage.

Despite his attempts to convince her otherwise, Blake had been certain that her work would not receive any reception and, out of embarrassment, refused to let them see the light of day. The determined blonde then took it upon himself – with a little help from Adam – to send her first original manuscript to editors and publishers anonymously.

To her amazement, the story had actually piqued interest. Soon, she began communicating with different publishers, though with the name 'Blair Nightshade', fearing that using her real identity would adversely affect her University life and future prospects.

Consequently, Blake had three short fiction books under her belt since then. The writer admittedly made a decent amount from their sales – enough that she could have probably survived without having to work part-time for awhile. But Blake was a frugal and intelligent woman; she knew the sum wouldn't last long in the big city, and she still had student loans to pay off as her scholarship unfortunately hadn't covered the entire cost of her course. In addition, she – alongside Adam and Sun – consistently donated to their old orphanage whenever possible, further draining her resources.

Blake didn't jump when a weight rested itself on top of her chair. Peeking up, the photographer found Sun – now in a plain white t-shirt – had leaned his arms against the back of her chair to stare over her head at the laptop. "Sooo, how are things?" he asked whimsically.

"They're fine," she replied, typing a few more key ideas into the outline.

"Oh? Nothing noteworthy going on?" Sun roguishly questioned. "No special someone?"

"No," Blake answered in monotone.

Sun pursed his lips. Catching a glimpse of her phone out his peripheral vision, the dancer swooped in and snatched it off her desk. He received absolutely no reaction as the dancer scrolled through her short list of contacts, stopping when he spotted an unfamiliar name.

"Well, she's new," he remarked, side-eyeing his friend with a sly smirk. "Yang?"

Blake quirked an eyebrow. "She's a client, Sun."

"Whose phone number happens to be saved," Sun rebutted. "I stand by what I said; this is new. You don't usually have their personal info or keep it."

Blake sighed, momentarily dropping her work to look at the dancer. "She called earlier to offer a job."

Sun rested a heavy hand on her table and leaned in closer. "And?" he prompted.

The budding writer was unfazed by his proximity. "And I said I would think about it," she said indifferently.

Her friend huffed through his nose. "If you saved her number, you had to have been _slightly_ interested. So why turn it down?"

Blake's forehead creased. "I haven't rejected the proposal–"

"But you haven't _accepted _it," Sun countered. "Which is dumb."

She crossed her arms. "How is it _dumb_?"

"Because what reason is there to turn this down?" Sun rolled his eyes. "C'mon, she's probably giving you a pretty huge paycheque for you to even _consider _it. And money's always good, Blake."

His pupils darkened. He slid her phone back onto the desk and then proceeded to crack his knuckles menacingly. "Is she harassing you or something?"

Blake stiffened in shock. "What? No," Blake frantically replied, alarmed that her friend could think that. "She's been wonderfully accommodating. I just…" Her gaze flickered to her now asleep laptop.

The dancer's eyes softened a tad as he relaxed and knelt to Blake's eye level. "Then what's stopping you?" he quietly asked. He glanced at her computer. "Think you should be focusing on writing?"

"... Yeah," Blake breathed, sinking into her seat. "It's been a month since I've made any progress."

A low hum sounded from his throat. Standing to his full height, Sun patted the photographer sympathetically on the shoulder. "Just sitting here isn't gonna change that," he murmured. Looking out of her window at the beautiful streaks of burnt orange and purple that lined the sky, he inhaled deeply before releasing it in rush. "Why don't you take the risk anyway?" he suggested. "Get the dosh. Maybe find inspiration out there."

Sun eyed her unmoving form out of his periphery. "I don't know exactly what you're feeling," he said apologetically, "but I don't think you're losing out if you take more time off. It might help, if anything."

He shrugged his broad shoulders. "That's my opinion anyway. But what do I know, right?"

Blake chuckled silently. "You know more than you give yourself credit for, Sun." She intertwined her fingers together on her stomach and reclined her chair back to stare up at her chipped ceiling. "You realise I'm older than you, right? Shouldn't I be the one handing out advice?"

The dancer smirked. "You? Advice? Since when did that happen?" he teased with a sly grin, receiving a disgruntled pout in return.

Letting the smile fall, Sun scratched his chin and sighed, feeling the abrasive wisp of prickly stubble beginning to sprout on his face. Padding out of her room, he said, "Give her a buzz, Blake. I don't think you'll regret it."

Left with those final words of wisdom, the writer found herself alone with her thoughts yet again. Amber eyes unconsciously traced the cracks lining the whitewash ceiling as Blake silently mulled over Sun's input.

He had voiced thoughts she believed true. So far, any attempts to simply sit and develop her manuscript proved fruitless. Day in and day out, Blake found herself glaring at her work, growing more belligerent the longer she remained incapable of producing words; words that could properly convey and evoke the emotions and people and places she painstakingly conjured and envisioned within her mind.

Her inability to properly pen her thoughts ate at her; sucked away any enjoyment she ever felt through a thin, long straw and replaced the slowly draining pleasure with an odd frigid hollowness. The writer found herself unable to fight off the bitter and all-encompassing sensation, which was in itself already maddening.

She felt her nails dig into the soft palm of her left hand as her fist curled into a ball and closed her weary eyes. _'Maybe I _should_ take a break.'_

The photographer breathed an inaudible sigh and reached blindly for her phone. When her hand made contact with the plastic exterior, she scooped up the device and glanced briefly at the black screen. Tapping its home button once, the display lit up, presenting Yang's name and number. Remembering their earlier conversation, Blake checked the time and noted it was fairly reasonable; someone was definitely still working at 5:41PM somewhere in the city.

With some hesitation, Blake called the model. "Hello? Yang?" she began when the line successfully connected.

"_Blake! That was quick. Is something the matter?"_

"No, just… about that offer…"

* * *

**AN:** Admittedly, I take a lot of liberties with the business aspect of… many things. While I have some basic knowledge, I _really _didn't want to bog down the story with the red tape that comes with accuracy. Please take everybody's dual roles (and the efficient-ish pace) with a grain of salt, and roll with it. A 'small' cast, coupled with real life bureaucracy that don't translate well into this story, means I have to improvise. Apologies to anyone who _actually _dabbles in business as a major or a job requirement!

I genuinely like Team CRDL as characters; having that contrast between nice people and absolute assholes is great and adds dimension to the universe. Figured they'd make brilliant rivals, since you'll always hear about 'that one guy' who's a giant prick.

VnixxiR was the one who sparked my surprising love for SunxAdam, so props to her.

Thanks again to everybody who reviews, follows and favourites this. I apologise for the delay and for any mistakes, been feeling under the weather as of late. Chapter 7's release will have to be postponed until I can finish and edit it.


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